Parallelogram : Day Two
by Wyoming Farnsworth
Summary: The continuing adventures of Frank Parker, Chrononaut ...
1. Default Chapter

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 01  
  
Five Days, Twenty-Three Hours, Fifty-Eight Minutes  
  
Taking a moment to brush a tired hand across his face, White House Chief of Staff Ethan Wendall Stoddard realized he had spent far too many hours in the last six months in the subterranean Situation Room – or Sit- Room, as the military brass preferred to call it. The War on Terror, while progressing nicely, had almost required his constant attention to the details surrounding dozens of engagements, briefing after briefing of planned missions, and hundreds of interrogations. The Joint Chiefs made most of the recommendations – after all, military opportunities were their specialty – but the President demanded a member of his staff maintain an open flow of information to the Cabinet ... and Stoddard was best-suited for the job. He had served in the military, had been a commander in the first Desert Storm, before returning home and answering the call to politics. On the fast track, the party moved him about quickly, giving him the best exposure to the best candidates in the field. Stoddard knew that his level- headedness – a trait that had served him well on more occasions that he cared to remember coming under enemy fire – drew the attention of this Administration, and, before he could even think about giving romance a second-chance in this lifetime, Stoddard had been hand-picked to serve the world's only remaining superpower in one of the key tactical positions.  
  
"So much for giving up stress," he said.  
  
"What's that, Mr. Stoddard?" his aide asked, his arms straining under the weight of intelligence briefings.  
  
"Never mind, Morgan."  
  
Of course, of all the places to be in, around, and under the White House, the Sit-Room wasn't exactly the worst possible choice. The center was adorned with state-of-the-art technology – the kinds of equipment Stoddard had long ago imagined only existed in 'Star Trek' movies. Ten foot high digital plasma screens were mounted around the circular room, and the banks of blinking monitors stretched from wall to wall. The floor was a series of slotted metal plating, and someone – one of the various military experts he recognized shuffling around a bank of satellite monitoring screens – had once told him that it was 'shielded' or 'grounded' or 'protected' or some such condition to guard the room's personnel from possible electrocution. He didn't know whether or not it was possible, but the principle certainly matched the technological asthetics of the place. The ceiling – an almost artistic array of light fixtures and additional hanging plasma screens – was very high up – perhaps fifty feet above him – and it was lined with a series of colored gels that, once lit, indicated the critical level of any emergency. Right now, the amber lights burned, signaling the highest state of alertness.  
  
In other words, this was not a good time to be here.  
  
Rising from the monitor and leaving several technicians to continue their work, Colonel Dallas McGinty walked over to where Stoddard and his aide patiently waited.  
  
"This isn't going to be very easy to explain," McGinty began, his eyes fixed with determination, "but I'm willing to give it a go, Ethan."  
  
The chief nodded. "What do you have, Dallas?"  
  
"I'm not entirely certain," he said, "but the techs are giving the satellite defense grid an entire diagnostic. I'll be able to report more definitive information once their evaluations are complete." He sighed heavily, folding his hands behind his back. "As best as they are able to ascertain, we lost our entire Overlord capability nearly sixty minutes ago."  
  
"Lost?"  
  
McGinty winced. "I hate the word, but, yes, 'lost' is the best they can come up with."  
  
Stoddard glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the technicians. Clearly, he could sense from their panicked movements – setting gauges, punching buttons – that something was amiss.  
  
"Dallas, how do you 'lose' the ability to task every one of the hundreds of intelligence gathering satellites we have in orbit?"  
  
"Ethan, like I said, we don't know."  
  
"Are they off-line?"  
  
Shaking his head, McGinty replied, "No, sir. They've manually reset every possible system, but they're still receiving no response."  
  
Suddenly, Stoddard locked eyes with the military man. "Okay, what gives?"  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
"You called me 'sir,' Dallas," the man observed.  
  
"I did?"  
  
"Yes, you did. We've talked about this before. Every time you call me 'sir,' the news isn't good. The news isn't fortuitous to the current state of affairs. Or ... in very rare cases ... the news isn't complete."  
  
Smiling weakly, McGinty nodded. "I never was very good at hiding my confusion around you, Ethan. I guess you're just too damn good to be doing the job you do." Taking a deep breath, he continued. "Now, to the best of my understanding, this is what I can tell you. The grid has not been taken off-line. Those satellites are up there – they are in active orbit of the planet – and, according to all instrumentation, they're performing perfectly. They're gathering telemetry, and they're photographing their designated countrysides all around the globe, and they're transmitting that photography back down into our defense mainframe. The problem is ... it appears that we've lost control of them."  
  
"How is that possible?" Stoddard asked. "This system has been designed and refitted by the best scientific minds of our generation. It has redundancy protocols that guarantee – with absolute certainty – that only authorized individuals here and in the Pentagon have the ability to manipulate satellite trajectory." He stepped forward. "Did you hear what I said, Dallas? The best scientific minds of our generation? Redundancy protocols? I haven't made any of that up. I remember it being explained for me very, very clearly when I took this post at the President's appointment. Now, how is this scenario even remotely possible?"  
  
Smirking, the military man quipped, "And we have the best scientific minds of our generation working on it as we speak, Ethan." He held his hands out to his side. "What do you want me to say, sir? There's no plausible explanation that they can offer."  
  
"I don't want you to say anything," the chief replied. "But I'd like you to stop calling me 'sir.'"  
  
"Sorry ... sir." He cleared his throat. "Er ... sorry, Ethan."  
  
"Mr. Stoddard!"  
  
He turned in the direction he heard his name called from, and, standing beside the Central Command Console, another military aide held up the receiver of the Red Phone.  
  
'The President's direct line,' he thought.  
  
"Mr. Stoddard," the aide repeated his name. "You have a telephone call."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Sir, it isn't the President."  
  
Knowing that whoever was on the other end was in severe violation of every White House policy as it related to the Red Phone, Stoddard knew this was not a good time to be the Chief of Staff. Someone – apparently someone upstairs – was using the line at the President's behest, and he had the unfortunate responsibility of reminding the offender that no one – and he meant absolutely no one – used the Red Phone other than the nation's highest elected official.  
  
"Great," he muttered, starting over to the console. "Not only do I have to deliver the worst possible news of the day, but also I have to discipline someone who should know better than to violate government protocol." Over his shoulder, he ordered, "Get those satellites back under our control, Dallas," but he didn't wait for an answer.  
  
Reaching the console, he nodded to the aide as he took the receiver and placed it to his ear. "Stoddard," he said quickly.  
  
"I know precisely what's going through your mind right now, Ethan, but I'm warning you: don't bother quoting protocol to me," the voice on the other end replied. "You're going to have far greater concerns before this day is through."  
  
Raising an eyebrow, he asked, "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"I think you heard me well enough."  
  
"Yes," he tried, "and I suspect that you heard what I asked you. Who is this?"  
  
"You're wasting precious time, because who I am is of no consequence," he heard, and he immediately guessed from the sound of the voice that it was being electronically filtered and digitally altered to disguise the speaker. "The fact that I've contacted you on this line is. You've thought – for a very long time – that the Red Phone was only available to the present resident of the Oval Office." The man on the other end of the private line laughed. "Ethan, I would imagine that, as of this moment, you're going to seriously rethink everything you've been told since your tenure at the White House began. Young man, when technology is on your side, you have more than the world at your fingertips."  
  
"I'm not going to ask this again," Stoddard explained, growing irritated with the senseless banter, "but I'd like know right now who I'm speaking with."  
  
"Spare me your sanctimoniousness," he heard. "It isn't becoming ... and I find it insulting. You're speaking with the man who presently has control of the nation's satellite monitoring system. I'm positive that the staff has already assured you that, technologically, that isn't possible, but, as I said, you'll be reconsidering everything you've been told before I'm through." After a quick pause, he added, "Don't bother pondering the logistics of how it has happened. You may not even want to bother having those technicians waste their time in trying to regain control. It won't happen. They've been temporarily locked out. I have made it so. And they won't be allowed control again ... not until I give the authorization, that is."  
  
Glancing back, he waved at McGinty. The man started over.  
  
Reaching the conclusion that now was not the time for procedure, the chief leaned against the aluminum console. "Then I can assume that the purpose behind this telephone call is to provide me with the demands I must meet in order to have said authorization granted?" McGinty reached him, and Stoddard gestured in the air as if he were writing on paper. Immediately, the man produced a pen, and, from Morgan, he grabbed one of the manilla folders. Holding it up, he waited for the chief to finish writing the single word:  
  
'Terrorist.'  
  
"Now, Ethan," the voice said, "please ignore your callous insults for the remainder of this call. My courtesy will suffer so much offense."  
  
McGinty disappeared, clearly going to work with the technical staff at figuring out how a private internal White House telephone line could possibly be tapped. Glancing around to make sure that no one else was watching him, Stoddard closed his eyes for a moment and focused his energies on the call.  
  
"I'm listening," he replied. "You want to be heard, and I understand that now. I give you my word. I'm listening."  
  
"That's better."  
  
"What would you like to say?"  
  
"Let me start at the beginning: I'll alleviate your blindness and tell you what it is you 're missing, given that your satellites are presently transmitting pre-recorded images to the Sit-Room."  
  
What? How could the caller – how could anyone outside of the Sit- Room – possibly know that?  
  
"You mean ... we've lost real-time imaging?" Stoddard asked.  
  
"That's correct," the voice replied.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"I have my reasons. Relax, Ethan. I will return control of your precious satellites to you shortly, but I'd like to explain the images that I'm presently studying. Undoubtedly, what I'm looking at is why the President to send you to the basement."  
  
"What would that be?"  
  
"The Soviets – well, what's left of that sad bunch – and the Chinese? They have probably already spoken with the President about the satellite images coming out of northern Alaska," the man continued. "Approximately sixty minutes ago – when I relieved your staff of their present responsibilities – satellites registered what appeared to be a thermonuclear detonation several clicks north of Ice Base Zulu."  
  
This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all, and it was progressively getting worse.  
  
"Ice Base Zulu?" Stoddard asked, feigning confusing. He had to see just how much this mystery caller knew. It would provide him with the only edge possible. "What is Ice Base Zulu?"  
  
"Don't insult my intelligence," the voice warned. "Ironically, Zulu is a quaint holdover from the Cold War. Trust me. It was scheduled to be closed in the 1990's, but, out of deference to the senator from Alaska, it was left open, co-opted as part of a Black Budget program. After all, if any renegade Soviet invasion force wanted to infiltrate the United States to pilfer our natural resources, everyone is quite certain that they would do so by way of Alaska."  
  
"Our country considers the Soviet states allies."  
  
"Allies? Come now, Ethan. Don't behave so diplomatically."  
  
"How do you know my name?"  
  
"Accept the reality that I do."  
  
"Given my position, you can understand why it would be my duty to ask."  
  
"Of course. But accept it, nonetheless. That is the way you can best serve your President now."  
  
He bit back his desired reply. "I understand. What can you tell me about the blast?"  
  
"I can give you my assurance," the voice said. "This was not the detonation of any nuclear warhead. You can tell the President. He can tell the Chinese. And the Soviets. And whoever else has been calling."  
  
"Without our satellites, how can I confirm this?"  
  
"Take my word for it."  
  
"I think you understand that that is something I cannot do," Stoddard exclaimed.  
  
"Then, you may attempt to contact Zulu Base. I'll spare you the time by explaining that one of the blast's effects is very similar to an electromagnetic pulse. It fuses microelectronics. Circuitry of any type is fused for miles around."  
  
"How far?"  
  
"The data is under review as we speak," the voice said. "Once I know, I'll let you know."  
  
Disgusted, Stoddard gritted his teeth. Forcing himself to relax, he tried, "Who is responsible for the blast?"  
  
"I am."  
  
"But it wasn't nuclear?"  
  
"No, it wasn't."  
  
"Then ... what was it?"  
  
"Bad question. Try another."  
  
"All right." Pressing the phone more tightly to his ear, he asked, "Why did you do it?"  
  
"That's much better," the voice agreed, sounding pleasant. "I'll offer you a name: Trace Hightower."  
  
Stoddard felt the blood drain from his face.  
  
"What happened to Trace Hightower?"  
  
"In the most conventional terms in which you and I can presently understand, Trace Hightower no longer exists."  
  
"You killed Trace?"  
  
"Yes, I did."  
  
The chief felt a tremble rise in his stomach. Bile churned, and he sensed it rise into his throat. The blood returned to his face, and he grew angry. Desperately, he wanted to reach out and strike something. He needed to be somewhere else, somewhere out of command in this type of situation, somewhere perhaps out in the field exercising the kind of training the military had long ago given to him. Those skills, he could put to great use, hunting down this madman – or could it be madwoman? – and making the bastard pay for whatever he had done to Hightower.  
  
"Why kill Trace Hightower?" Stoddard finally found the courage to ask.  
  
"Oh, come now, Ethan," the voice replied. "Trace Hightower? Rogue? Adventurer? Pleasure-seeker? The man was a walking publicity stunt. I can't imagine you would afford Mr. Hightower a second thought, much less the time of day." After a pause, he said, "You're a very smart man, Ethan. I think you know precisely why Hightower was such a formidable target for my first strike, and I give you my word that there will be more, should you fail to comply with each of my demands."  
  
"Which are?"  
  
"Not now," the voice said.  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Need I remind you that you're being remiss in your duties?"  
  
Coldly, Stoddard replied, "I don't need to be reminded of anything by the likes of you."  
  
"Temper, temper, Ethan," the voice taunted. "Now is not the time to indulge in primitive emotions. Rather, what you should do now is take what you know – take exactly what I've told you – to the President. He'll need to act on this information. We'll talk later."  
  
"Why are you doing this?"  
  
"Because I can."  
  
The line went dead.  
  
Before he could numbly hang up the phone, McGinty was back, taking the receiver out of his hand, listening to it to make sure that the connection had, in fact been severed. Convinced that it had, he placed it back on its cradle.  
  
"What is it, Ethan?"  
  
He couldn't provide much explanation here. This area – the Sit-Room – wouldn't work. There were too many pairs of ears around. Despite being in one of the most secure locations in the free world, Ethan Stoddard had never felt more violated.  
  
"Come with me."  
  
Rushing to keep in step with him, McGinty grabbed Morgan by the arm and dragged him along behind.  
  
"Where are we going?"  
  
"We have to speak with the President."  
  
"Ethan, wait a minute! What's happened?"  
  
He stopped. Ignoring the distractions of techs walking to and fro, he turned and placed his lips close to McGinty's ear, whispering, "Someone has just killed the President's son-in-law."  
  
END of Chapter 01 


	2. Chapter 02

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 02  
  
Five Days, Twenty-Three Hours, Thirty-Three Minutes  
  
"What do you have on this guy?" Detective Martin Guerrero from the passenger seat of Craig Donovan's BMW Roadster. "I mean ... I understand that he's a terrorist, but that's really all you've told me."  
  
Donovan pulled onto the freeway, shifting the car into high gear, and he floored the accelerator. Veering through the building rush hour traffic, he ignored the posted speed limit, racing across the three lanes of clogged vehicles, careened onto the shoulder, and felt the roar of wind in his hair.  
  
"You know damn well that I shouldn't be telling you a thing, Marty," the driver warned. "This is a matter of national security. Everything we have on this guy DeMarco is classified. As a matter of fact, you should know better than to even ask such a question. I could have you locked up for inquiring."  
  
"Hey, buddy, this wasn't my idea," the detective countered. "You asked me to tag along, remember? My duty shift has ended. There's a TV dinner with my name on it faithfully waiting for me at home. I don't need the headaches, and it's not like you're paying any overtime. As far as I'm concerned, you can slow down to thirty-miles-an-hour, and I'll be glad to jump out."  
  
Donovan knew Guerrero well enough to understand the past. The man had applied – on more than one occasion – to serve his country. He had applied – in his youth – for a position with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but budget cuts had kept the FBI's headcount low and Marty Guerrero's dreams of being a special agent had been vanquished by the bureaucracy. Apparently, thanks to a family history of heart disease, the Central Intelligence Agency wasn't interested in offering the man so much as a research position – not that he would've taken it, desiring a life of active service as opposed to culling through the foreign press every day for any splinter that could've been disguised intelligence dialogue. The Secret Service primarily recruited through the military for the last two decades, and, again anchored by bad genetics, Marty Guerrero settled for the last option available to him: to serve and protect the ordinary citizen. Somehow, a friend of a friend of a friend in a fairly high- ranking position had managed to keep the discussion of his father and his grandfather's heart condition to a minimum, and Marty Guerrero – as efficient as any detective Donovan had ever known – had worked his way up to the position of 1st Grade Detective, the crowning achievement of his contribution to the world of work. However, whenever he could, Donovan threw the man a bone as a show of appreciation for all of the red tape Guerrero cut through on the NSA's behalf. Given Donovan's foiling of a bank robbery just this morning, Guerrero was due for another bone.  
  
"All right," the driver replied. "I'm going to tell you what I know, but I'll deny I said anything if this gets to the press ... and it had better not get to the press, Marty."  
  
"I'm all ears, G-man."  
  
"The man's name is Richard DeMarco," Donovan began, weaving off the shoulder and through two lanes of honking cars. "He's a terrorist. He specializes in bombs, but he's wanted in several countries as a possible assassin. A general bad apple, if you catch my drift. That the United States is aware of, DeMarco has operated under a variety of aliases: Dominic Martinez, Arturo Wainwright, Raymond Chianese, or there's the rather dry, dull, but very American-sounding Walter Churney."  
  
"That is dry and dull," Guerrero agreed.  
  
"Within the international community," the driver continued, "DeMarco goes by the code name of Efnisien."  
  
"Efnisien?"  
  
"That's what the file says," he said. "It's from Celtic mythology. Apparently, rumor has it that DeMarco is a nut for the stuff. Not just the Celtic myths, mind you, but all of it. Greek. Roman. Egyptian. You name it. Anyway, as the story goes, Efnisian if referred to as 'the God of the Hammer' by some texts. Apparently he was half-brother to royalty, a sister named Branwen. She was the world class beauty. Helen of Troy kind of beauty. She was courted by this Irish king, Matholwch. In exchange for the daughter, Matholwch gave Branwen's father these great horses. Efnisien believed a marriage between the Welsh and the Irish was a mortal insult to the bloodline, so, to make matters worse, he mutilated the horses. As you can guess, Matholwch wasn't happy, and the two kingdoms nearly went to war. However, at the last minute, Matholwch was given a peace offering: a cauldron that could resurrect the dead."  
  
"That would come in handy."  
  
"Tell me about it. So," Donovan continued, "Branwen wed the king, she bore him a son, and they named him Gwern. Now that the king has his heir, he imprisons her – don't ask me why royalty pulled this kind of crap – and the Welsh got wind of it and went to rescue her. Like any good Irishman, the lords weren't going to stand by and let their queen be taken back by the Welsh. In order to counter the attack, the lords hid themselves in flour bags. But the legend says Efnisien sniffed out their trick. He cast the bags into the burning cauldron before the lords could cut themselves free."  
  
"But wouldn't the cauldron just resurrect them after they died?" Guerrero asked.  
  
"That's not the way it worked, Marty," Donovan replied. "See, if you're alive and thrown into the burning cauldron, you died. If you were dead and thrown into the burning cauldron, it brought you back to life."  
  
"So ... this Efnisien killed the Irish lords? He ... torched them?"  
  
"Exactly! Then, he took Gwern – his own nephew – and threw him into the fire." Donovan shrugged. "Apparently, the Welsh had some rules that prohibited shedding the blood of a kinsman, so burning him to death was the only way Efnisien could rid their bloodline of the boy. Now, the Irish are really pissed. War broke out. Well, as you can guess, the Welsh found themselves on the wrong end of a raw deal. They fought hard and killed plenty of Irish soldiers, but Matholwch kept replenishing his army by throwing their dead bodies into the cauldron. The Welsh couldn't win!"  
  
"What happened?"  
  
"Efnisien realized he had started the whole thing, and he decided it was his responsibility to end it all." Again, Donovan screeched across two lanes of sluggish automobiles to pull back out onto the shoulder, where he raced ahead of the traffic. "The legend says that the man repented for what he brought on the Welsh, but I don't know."  
  
"Why not?"  
  
The driver cocked his head. "Well, the man faked his own death. Enraged, Matholwch didn't want the young man to get off so easily. He ordered his soldiers to bring the body to him, and then he ordered them to thrown it into the cauldron ... which would've brought him back to life. I'm guessing that, by doing this, the king could've tortured the man over and over and over again. But, once he was thrown into the fire, Efnisien took out his hammer and destroyed the cauldron, dying in the process but relieving the Irish of the chance to bring their dead back to life. As a result, by sacrificing himself, he gave the Welsh a chance to fight on equal terms."  
  
"And this is who DeMarco idolizes?"  
  
Donovan shook his head. "I never said he idolized Efnisien, but he obviously sees something so strongly in common with a character from Celtic mythology that he chose it as a codename."  
  
Fastening his seatbelt, Guerrero nodded. "Well, both men obviously share an affinity for fire. We know that for certain. And by the way, G-man? DeMarco didn't torch only weapons, it turns out."  
  
Curious, Donovan raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"  
  
"I didn't tell you earlier because I was waiting on confirmation," the man admitted. "There was a body. Dental records have confirmed a match. The man's name was Emile Luga. He was on our radar, so he certainly should have been on yours. The D.C. police were watching him closely. He had recently been involved in illegal arms deals between some small-time thugs in Washington and some really nasty folks well south of the Mexican border. He'd been questioned on a few incidents, but nothing specific could be tied back to the man. He was very careful about whom he dealt with, but, given the circumstances, there's a good chance that those weapons DeMarco set fire to were part of an ongoing investigation."  
  
"Luga?" Donovan asked. He reached down to his Blackberry and keyed in a message for Central Ops to perform a name search cross referencing any results back to Richard DeMarco. He knew the results shouldn't take long. The name – Luga – was uncommon, so he should have an answer shortly. "Let's let the administration pencil pushers run a search on that, Marty. If Luga died in this fire, then there's a good chance you and I may be on to something much bigger than we originally suspected."  
  
"He didn't die in the fire," Guerrero corrected. "I said we found the body there. He died as a result of a gunshot wound fired at close range."  
  
"Close range, eh?" Donovan jerked the steering wheel, and they pulled back onto the freeway. "That meant it was personal. The two men knew each other."  
  
"It looks that way."  
  
"The question is: how well did they know one another?" He nodded. "Let the NSA figure that one out for us."  
  
Begrudingly, the detective asked, "You're going to share whatever it is you find?"  
  
"Marty, are you implying that I've not offered you the cooperation of the NSA when you've asked for it?"  
  
"A simple 'yes' or 'no' will do, Craig."  
  
"Let me share this." He saw the exit sign – Broadway Avenue – and he swerved into the right lane. "DeMarco operates under a handful of alias, but there's only one I care about right now. It's that dull, dry, American- sounding Walter Churney."  
  
"Why is that so important?"  
  
Donovan smiled. "Because it was Richard DeMarco who took a plane from Paris to Washington, D.C., yesterday, but it was Walter Churney who registered last night at the EverRest Motor Lodge ... with no confirmed reservation and no anticipated date of departure. So, you and I are going to pay Mr. Churney a visit."  
  
END of Chapter 02 


	3. Chapter 03

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 03  
  
Five Days, Twenty-Three Hours, Eighteen Minutes  
  
Under the escort of two F/A-22 Raptors, the Boeing 707-320B aircraft – bearing the tail number 77777 – taxied down the Runway Delta at Area 51. The aircraft quickly built up to maximum ground speed, and – ever so gracefully – its nose lifted upward, pointing toward the sky, the vessel following – and it climbed majestically into the clear blue. The engines whined as the Boeing's pilot forced the descent for quickly than was recommended – Project BackStep personnel had an infamous history within and beyond the NSA for pushing the limits of their equipment's established capabilities – and the aircraft, codenamed 'Rip Van Winkle,' received no less from the government's most-protected servicemen and women. After the pilot – Andover – announced to his escorts that he had reached 32,000 feet, the Raptors – waggling their wings in a show of support – veered off to return to base.  
  
Aboard, Dr. Olga Vukavitch sat in the sciences cabin, ruffling through the latest medical briefings on the survivors of temporal contamination. Frank Parker had done them no good, but the Chroniticin – the virus under secret development by the CDC since the phenomenon of time-travel infection had been discovered – had delivered a much needed boost to the effectiveness of her patients' immune systems. So far, everyone was responding positively. Their vitals were strong, and, from what she read, their appetites had quickly returned. She smiled at the thought of the sweaty and groggy patients turning their individual oxygen tents – the finest isolation chambers BackStep could provide – into miniature transparent eateries.  
  
"Good grief," she said. "I'd hate to serve that clean-up crew."  
  
The door opened, swinging easily inward, and Chrononaut Channing Michelson cautiously stepped inward. With an expression of innocence – one she had long ago fallen deeply in love with – the man asked, "I hope I'm not disturbing you, Olga."  
  
Closing the file folder, she smiled up at the man. "Of course not," she responded. Sliding the files away from her, she added, "Actually, I'm glad you stopped by. I could use a break."  
  
He shuffled over to the table, carrying a bottle of crystal clear water in his hand, and he held it out for you. "I thought you might be thirsty. I know that you've been working for – what? – nine, ten, twelve hours straight?" Gesturing over his shoulder, he said, "I'm having the kitchen send up some sandwiches. There's some ribeye in the refrigerator, and I didn't want to see it go to any waste. You know how the GAC hates waste. Since it's just sitting there, I hoped a couple of steak sandwiches might do the trick. I thought ... I thought maybe that it would be all right if we ate ... while we talked."  
  
Massaging her own neck, she agreed. "That would be wonderful."  
  
He frowned. "You haven't heard what I have to say."  
  
Ignoring the possible implication, she assured him, "Channing, it's always wonderful to hear what you have to say."  
  
[Five Days, Twenty-Three Hours, Fifteen Minutes.]  
  
The Boeing's lower deck had been fitted with an isolation chamber – completely hermetically sealed – for the very purpose in which Frank Parker now occupied the comfortable chamber. Sure, it had the same clinical feel that his sealed quarters did in the cellars of BackStep's main complex, but, by those standards, he was on holiday. The bed was far more comfortable, equipped with soft sheets, a thin comforter, and two pillows (instead of the cursory one). Also, it had a full box spring instead of a spring matte upon which the mattress sat, so, as far as comfort went, it slept much easier ... and he desperately needed some quality sleep. Granted, the tranquilizers Dr. Welles had administered put him under, but that sleep was plagued with nightmares of a BackStep gone horrible wrong ... this BackStep, to a certain degree, so the sleep was restless at best. Here, he guessed he would catch a few z's nicely. Still, he couldn't be certain of anything. If he had learned anything since his arrival in this timeline, then it was that nothing – not even his own second guesses – should be taken for granted.  
  
"What's on your mind, Frank?"  
  
Parker glanced over at Ebdon Finkle. The old man – an aging restaurant owner who inadvertently, but not reluctantly, had found himself part of a top secret government mission – was leisurely playing solitare on a fold- out tray he had found in a storage locker. Thankfully, Finkle didn't need a protective suit to keep him from temporal contamination. He had been inoculated with enough time to spare, and his immune system was strong. In fact, so far as Parker knew, Ebdon was the only living being on Earth he could make human contact with ... but Frank Parker didn't need anyone to hold his hand.  
  
"What do you mean, Ebdon?"  
  
"Your face is longer than one of the mugs on Mount Rushmore."  
  
Sniffling with laughter, Parker asked, "Is that a joke?"  
  
"Yes," Finkle said. "A poor one."  
  
"Ah, Ebdon, even a poor joke has a place in an insane man's universe."  
  
"Are you saying that you're insane, or are you implying that I'm insane?"  
  
Parker shrugged. "The way this mission is turning out, I'd have to say it's a bit of both."  
  
Lowering his eyes at the chrononaut, Finkle offered, "You don't want to go insulting the only guest this side of one of those containment suits, Frank. I'll have to ask for another room, you know."  
  
"Don't do that," the man conceded. "I'd miss the company."  
  
Pointing at the bed tray, the older gentleman asked, "Do you want to play some cards?"  
  
Smiling, Parker said, "I've been known to take men to the bank under the danger of a poker game. Did you bring your wallet?"  
  
Tiredly, Finkle replied, "Now, Frank, I might run my own restaurant, but I'm not Donald Trump. Do you really want to spend the next few hours taking this old coot's Social Security check?"  
  
Parker laughed, and, for the first time since he had arrived, he felt ... he felt good.  
  
"No, sir," he agreed. "I really wouldn't want to do that to my roommate."  
  
"Thank you very much."  
  
Suddenly, the two of them heard the compression of the airlock separating them from the rest of the aircraft's passengers. The massive latch on the compartment's door twirled, and a CDC-suited Dr. Nina Welles stepped inside.  
  
"What are the two of you doing awake?" she criticized, carrying a standard medical kit with her that she immediately tossed onto Frank's bed. "I thought you were told explicitly to get some sleep ... and this doesn't look like either of you have made an attempt."  
  
Innocently, Parker tried, "I have trouble sleeping when I fly."  
  
"And I have trouble sleeping when he has trouble sleeping," Finkle quipped. "Isn't that ... like ... some sort of Stockholm Syndrome?"  
  
"Not even remotely," she said. "It's only a poor excuse for disobeying a direct order from Bradley."  
  
"Hey," Parker interrupted, "I know for a fact that – if he could be in here – Bradley Talmadge would out at least his next two paychecks. He loves a round of poker, but he's not exactly in my league, if you know what I mean. I was just about to take Ebdon here to the cleaners. What say the good doctor join us?"  
  
Cocking her head to one side, Welles placed her hands on her hips. She fixed both of them with an evil stare – her eyes clearly visible through the protective faceplate – and she sighed angrily. After a moment's pause, she asked, "Five card stud?"  
  
The chrononaut glanced over at the restauranteer, who shrugged, so he replied, "We can do that."  
  
"Well, I guess your vitals can wait," she surrendered. "If you're well enough to play poker, I'd say that you're well enough to skip one medical check-up ... but only for a few hands. The two of you really do need to get some sleep. Once we land in Washington, God only knows how much time you'll have to rest, and I can't have our two most prized possessions counting sheep in the middle of saving the world as we know it." She dropped easily onto Ebdon's bed and ordered, "Give me the cards. I'll deal the first hand."  
  
[Five Days, Twenty-Three Hours, Twelve Minutes.]  
  
Michelson opened a bottle of wine, and, setting the two glasses in front of him, he calmly filled them both. Finished, he corked the bottle and easily slid one glass closer to the doctor.  
  
"We never finished our talk," he said, "before this whole affair began."  
  
Picking up the wine – a glass of merlot – she smiled weakly. "No. We didn't."  
  
"I believe we left off with you."  
  
She swallowed a quick sip. "What do you mean?"  
  
"You wanted to tell me something," Michelson remembered aloud. He gently shook the glass in his hand, and Olga watched as the dark liquid swirling and swirling – he was a practice connoisseur, she knew – under his refined control. The simple act reminded her of the fact that he was one of the few people in the history of the human race with the ability to control the violently bucking control arm within a Sphere. She smiled at the analogy.  
  
"Yes," she finally agreed, "I wanted to talk about us."  
  
He paused, lifting the glass to his nose and sniffing. "I'm listening."  
  
Slightly exasperated, she lowered her head, pressing her chin to her collarbone. "Channing, I don't think that now is the right time."  
  
"That's too much irony, even for you, Olga," he said. "Given what we do, all we have is time." He finally brought the glass to his lips and sipped. Swallowing, he offered, "Let's make the best of a bad situation, and let's finish our talk."  
  
"Channing, really ..."  
  
"I won't take no for an answer."  
  
"I'm not telling you no, sweetheart. I'm telling you that ... now is not the time ..."  
  
"When is the time?" he interrupted.  
  
"One challenge at a time," she replied evenly, though she knew what his response would be.  
  
"Those are my words," he countered.  
  
"I know they are."  
  
"In fact, you know damn well that that's my personal credo," he challenged. "Living one challenge at a time is the very philosophy I use to approach life ... but if you're trying to say that I should approach my love life one woman at a time, then I'd have to argue that, so far as a love life is concerned, I'm through." Peacefully, he set his glass on the table. "There's only one woman for me, Olga, and you know that. You've known that for over a year." He leaned forward. "You are the only woman I want in my life. You are the only woman I want to be with. You are the only woman I want to wake up with."  
  
"Channing," she tried, "you know that I have all of those feelings, too ... but now is not the time."  
  
"Is that because of this mission," he began, "or is that because Frank Parker has reappeared?"  
  
She knew Parker would come up in the course of this conversation. It was ... inevitable.  
  
"This is not about Frank Parker."  
  
"I think it is."  
  
"It isn't," she refused. "I give you my word."  
  
"You told me once that you thought you loved him," Michelson confessed. "As a matter of fact, your love for him is what kept you away from me – at arm's length – for far too long. When we should have been getting under one another's skin – crawling around trying to find the way to one another's heart – you couldn't do that, and, if I remember correctly, it was specifically because you couldn't forget your feelings for Frank Parker."  
  
"I never said that I couldn't forget my feelings for Mr. Parker," she argued coolly "What I said is that I didn't want to put aside my feelings for Mr. Parker."  
  
Slowly, Michelson nodded. "I remember that. I wanted to see if you remembered those words – those exact words – as clearly as I did."  
  
Olga threw back her head in exhaustion. In the last twelve hours, she fought to save the lives of men and women she didn't know. She fought the rising irritation at knowing a choice needed to be made, refusing to accept the fact that one man didn't belong in her life any longer while another man – a good, kind, and gentle man – did. But ... against the better part of everything logical running through her scientific mind ... she fought the wanton temptation – the honest human longing, need, and deepest, darkest desire to surrender all will, curl up in Frank Parker's arms, and bundle herself in his warmth, feeling his breath wash over her, sensing the gentle beat of the man's heart, confident that if there were any man in the known universe who could quite possibly feel exactly what it was she felt, understand exactly what it was that she thought ... it was Frank Parker ... it was not Channing Michelson. Yes, the years had forced them together, but it wasn't as if she hadn't slipped emotionally closer and closer to the chrononaut. He was ... comfortable. He was ... logical. He was ... perfect. Here, the man sat, sipping wine he had sent up along with some delicious sandwiches, and he remained perfectly civil in trying to decipher the confusion of his human heart. He wanted to be with her. That much, Olga never questioned. But ... was he meant for her? That answer eluded her. It was a riddle for the ages.  
  
'Do I settle for love now,' she wondered, 'content in the knowledge that I have found it ... or do I risk everything I've ever wanted to chance ... to a gamble?'  
  
[Five Days, Twenty-Three Hours, Nine Minutes.]  
  
"I'll see your B-12 shot, doctor," Parker replied, staring down at his pair of Kings backed up with a pair of Threes, "with the belt buckle from an alternate timeline, and I'll call." He turned to Ebdon. "It's up to you, buddy."  
  
"Again?"  
  
"That's right," the chrononaut teased. "And none of that 'how can it be me' stuff this time. I'd say that you're due for a hand. Why not go all out and bet the farm?"  
  
"I don't own a farm."  
  
From her side of the bed and from under her protective suit, Nina added, "I don't own a farm, either, Mr. Finkle."  
  
"No," he agreed, "but you've at least been provided a medical kit this man seems intent on swindling you out of."  
  
"Swindle?" Parker nearly screeched. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! What are you talking about, Ebdon? I've been on a roll the last three hands! You know how luck goes in streaks!"  
  
"I also know mashed potatoes go with meat, but do you see either of those entrees available for me to bet with?"  
  
"Well ... okay. Forget about betting the farm. Why not go all out and bet the restaurant?"  
  
"It's in both mine and my wife's name. She'd kill me quicker for losing it in a card game than she'd kill you for almost having killed me." He wrinkled his forehead. "Did that make any sense?"  
  
"I understood you perfect, Mr. Finkle," Nina answered, with a smile.  
  
"But you're on his side?"  
  
"No, sir," she insisted. "I only treat him. I don't take sides. As far as poker goes, Mr. Parker is on his own."  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Oh, don't thank me," she said. "You're on your own."  
  
Trying desperately to conceal his hand while he gestured wildly, Parker teased, "Ebdon, do you mean to tell me that – in the middle of the worst possible catastrophe this world could possibly face – you would need to phone home to get your wife's permission to make a simple poker bet?"  
  
Raising an eyebrow, the old man answered, "You've never been married, have you, Frank?"  
  
"Come on, Ebdon! You served in World War II, for Pete's sake! You faced off the world's worst lunatic in the ultimate battle to the death! The War to End All Wars! Certainly, you can cough up some real scratch to save your ass in poker!"  
  
"I told you the last time around," Finkle tried. "And the hand before that. And the hand before that. And the hand before that. Frank, I don't have any money."  
  
"You own a restaurant! How can you not have any money?"  
  
"Son, you listen about as well as my rocker. I think traveling through time has scrambled more than your eggs."  
  
"You take that back!" Parker teased.  
  
"Seriously, I think it's impaired your ability to complete a sentence."  
  
"What?" Parker objected. "Do you mean to tell me that those military goons pulled you off the front porch of your place of business, and you didn't even have your wallet on you?"  
  
With reserved pride, Finkle argued, "Frank, I was sitting on my own front porch. I was minding my own business. I was rocking my life away peacefully in a rocker that passed down from my father to me and from his father to him. Would you like to tell me why in the Sam Hill I'd have to carry my wallet in order to rock in my own rocker? Hell, I think you're off your rocker! Before I knew it – and certainly long before the thought of getting my wallet so much as crossed my mind – you came running up out of nowhere, bleeding from the mouth and eyes and such ... so I didn't waste time collecting my things."  
  
"Okay, okay," the chrononaut surrendered. "Fine. You don't have any money. What have you got?"  
  
Sounding incredulous, the old man barked, "I told you the last time the only thing I have to offer is the shirt on my back ... and you're not getting that!"  
  
Before Parker could must a reasonable argument, the plane's alarm system sounded. The three of them glanced up in the direction of the intercom, and they heard Bradley Talmadge announce, "People, we have a Priority One Airspace Alert Situation in effect. I need all on board personnel – I repeat, all on board personnel – to report to the Briefing Room. Frank Parker, this includes you. Suit up with aide of Mr. Finkle and get yourself to Briefing. We have a serious situation to discuss!"  
  
Sighing, the chrononaut wondered how an already untenable situation could possibly have grown worse.  
  
END of Chapter 03 


	4. Chapter 04

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 04  
  
Five Days, Twenty-Three Hours, Eight Minutes  
  
Glancing up from the command chair within the Cubicle – turning his attention away from the multitude of plasma screens broadcasting the images being collected from nineteen satellites all focused on northern Alaska – Dr. Eli Watanabe said, "I think your announcement was a bit premature."  
  
Senator Arthur Pendley, his fingers tracing the infrared signatures of two men moving – running as if for dear life – across the expanse of pure white snow, smiled to himself. "Eli, I give you my word: there is nothing remotely premature about global domination."  
  
Pointing at the men running across the monitor, he argued, "But, Mr. Pendley, you can see the image right there. Trace Hightower is not dead. He is alive. He is heading in the direction of Zulu Base." Sighing, he relaxed in the heavily padded chair. "It is only a matter of time before the President is aware."  
  
Pendley shook his head. "It is far more than a matter of time, Eli. Hightower has been hiking that terrain for two days. Even at top speed – even if the Secret Service agent accompanying him presses him to the limits of human endurance – there is no way possible for them to make it back to Zulu by noon tomorrow ... and, by that time, we will have past the point of no return on this little game of ours."  
  
His eyes fixed to the picture, Watanabe offered, "It is not too late. We could still use the Temporal Particle Weapon to kill him. Kill him and the secret service agent. They serve no purpose any longer, if what you have said is true."  
  
"No, no," the senator insisted. "I may be cruel, but I'm not heartless." He tapped his finger on the screen. "Let them run. Let them waste their energy. At best, the agent may have a satellite phone. If he does, then he will use it once I return control of the grid to the White House Sit-Room and to the Pentagon. Then and only then will Stoddard understand that they are too late to stop what has been set in motion." He smiled. "Our first strike is a complete success, Eli. Don't worry. You'll be doubly rewarded in the new regime."  
  
At a loss for any further arguments, the scientist went back to work retasking the satellites to their original orbital paths.  
  
Satisfied, Pendley began the long walk back up the flight of stairs.  
  
Back in his office, the senator sat down behind his desk. He imagined that, at the White House, decisions were already being made, and these decisions – despite the fact that they were long ago designed to leave an effective leadership structure in place – would set about a complex series of actions and reactions that would slowly but surely cause diplomatic chaos. In the Cubicle, he was aware that several governments – Israel, China, Japan, India – had already placed calls to the President, demanding an explanation for what their satellites had detected in northern Alaska. Over the course of the next hour, Pendley had no doubt that calls from Germany, Great Britain, and France would start pouring into the White House's switchboard. By then, Pendley would no longer be concerned with the President: next, his attention would have to focus on Chief of Staff Stoddard. The man was impeccable. Unlike the President, Stoddard was a strategist, a force to be reckoned with. Given time, however, every wall crumbles, and Stoddard would be no different.  
  
His personal line rang, and he answered it with a calm assuredness he hadn't yet experienced in this lifetime ... until today.  
  
"What is it, Chamberlin?"  
  
"The Mallathorn has been briefed on Project Kupher's first strike?"  
  
"My, my," the senator admired. "That auditory surveillance system of yours has certainly paid for itself."  
  
"As I said, sir," Chamberlin said, "British intelligence is light years ahead of what our CIA field agents are being provided."  
  
"What is Larnord's reaction?"  
  
There was a break on the line before the colonel replied, "He's ... indifferent to the situation."  
  
"Really?"  
  
"Yes, sir," the man affirmed. "It's almost as if ... sir, it's almost as if Larnord expected something of this magnitude to finally happen. Now that it has, he appears unsurprised."  
  
Pendley imagined that the alien – with his unique perspective on temporal events – had possessed some gift of seeing into the future, but precognition didn't seem to be one of Larnord's strong points. If it had been, then how could the War on Terror have lasted so long? Wouldn't the 'time lord' simply have glanced into his mind's eye – that cerebral crystal ball of his – and wouldn't he have informed the President or the military of which campaigns would succeed and which were destined for failure? Perhaps the Mallathorn was not so much the ally he pretended.  
  
"I am not concerned of Larnord's present activities, colonel," Pendley assured the man. "At this point, the alien has proven himself little more than a doddering advisor, and his advice has put this administration is more hot water than the President would like to admit." He shook his head. "No. Presently, my only interest in the Mallathorn is his request for a meeting with Frank Parker. Tell me: what's the status of the BackStep Team?"  
  
"They've only departure Area 51," Chamberlin said. "They won't be in Washington for five hours, at best."  
  
"By then, Washington airspace will be in total chaos."  
  
"It would certainly appear so, sir."  
  
Pleased with the report, Pendley said, "Very good, colonel. Back to your post. Also, I'd ask you to refrain from contacting me any time soon. The next few hours are critical to the success of Project Kupher. If we are to succeed – and there's no doubt in my mind that we will – then the next few hours are going to require a level of commitment to our mutual goals that cannot be jeopardized by unnecessary communication."  
  
"Understood," the colonel answered. "When would you like me to check in again?"  
  
Pendley sat back in his leather chair. "My guess is that, once the BackStep Team lands in Washington – or should I say 'if' they are allowed to land – I would imagine that Mr. Parker will be rushed to Larnord. Once you've ascertained whatever message the Mallathorn has for the chrononaut, kill the alien."  
  
"And Frank Parker?"  
  
"Of course, he is to be captured, colonel," Pendley concluded. "Once he's in your custody, contact me immediately. I want that man delivered to me. The next phase of Kupher may very well depend upon what government chooses to serve: the present administration ... or ours."  
  
END of Chapter 04 


	5. Chapter 05

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 05  
  
Five Days, Twenty-Three Hours, Five Minutes  
  
Grinding his tires across the gravel surface, Donovan brought his Roadster to a complete stop outside the Main Office of the EverRest Motor Lodge. The local traffic, once he pulled off the interstate, had slowed him down considerably, and he had to concentrate to keep from leaping from the open convertible and drawing unnecessary attention to himself. Casually, he opened his door – heard Marty following suit – and he marched in the direction of the glass doors. Quickly, the detective took up stride with him. "Let me do the talking," the NSA agent cautioned.  
  
"I think that's a mistake, Craig," Guerrero offered.  
  
"How's that?" Donovan asked. "If I hadn't given you a heads up, then you wouldn't even be here."  
  
"Right," the detective agreed, "but, so far as anyone knows, DeMarco is only a suspect in arson ... and that certainly doesn't fall under the domain of the NSA."  
  
"What about the murder?"  
  
"We don't know that he killed Emile Luga."  
  
"Not yet, we don't," Donovan corrected.  
  
"Look, buddy, I think you should let me handle this because you're with the NSA," the detective explained. "These local types – the small business owners who scrape by on meager business from bargain-hunting tourists – they have greater respect for the boys in blue who serve and protect them 'visibly' on a daily basis. That puts me in the catbird seat, Craig, not you. So why don't you let me handle the questions? What harm can I do? I'll introduce you as my assistant, a detective-in-training."  
  
"Oh, I'll bet you'd like that quite a bit."  
  
"You've got to admit that it has a certain charm."  
  
"Fine," Donovan agreed, brushing the detective off. "Remember what I told you: DeMarco is classified. He's off-limits to you, so he's even more off-limits to civilians, and that includes motel desk clerks. You so much as mumble his first name, and I'll have you back walking a beat. Are you with me on this?" Emphatically, the man said, "You're here to ask about a Walter Churney. He checked in late last night. Get a room number, and then I get to do the talking with DeMarco. Understand?"  
  
Reaching for the handle, Guerrero put on a face of pure innocence. "Craig, have I ever let you down?"  
  
"Don't start today."  
  
Inside, the elderly desk clerk was busy alternating between shuffling through the day's stack of mail and keeping tabs on the news broadcast blaring out of the nine-inch black-and-white television sitting on the counter. When he saw Donovan and Guerrero enter, he immediately turned down the volume and dropped the mail on a desk located beneath the counter. With a smile, he greeted the men.  
  
Easily, Guerrero reached inside his jacket pocket and produced his black leather wallet, flipping it open to reveal his badge and detective's identification. The old man's smile faded in a flash.  
  
"Hello, officers," he said. "How can I help you?"  
  
"Good evening," the detective replied. "My name is Detective Guerrero. This is my partner, Detective Donovan. We're with the Washington D.C. Police Department, and I was wondering if I could take a moment of your time."  
  
"Of course, detective," the man responded. "How can I help you?"  
  
"What's your name?"  
  
"Danny Carlson," he said. "Daniel Carlson," he quickly corrected. "I'm the manager here at the EverRest."  
  
Guerrero nodded. "Were you on duty yesterday evening, Danny?"  
  
"Yes, sir, I was."  
  
"That's good." Guerrero glanced casually out the nearest window, making a mental note of the number of automobiles parked within eyesight. It was an old habit he had learned from his first partner long ago, and old habits die hard. "We're looking for a gentleman who arrived in D.C. last night. He came in on a late flight from Paris. We've received information that he registered for a room here at your lodge."  
  
Raising an eyebrow, Carlson reached for the registration book. Turning the book back a single page, he asked, "What's the fellow's name?"  
  
"Churney," the detective said. "Walter Churney."  
  
"Churney?" Carlson held a look of surprise. "Well, yes, detective. He registered for a room here last night ... but he didn't fly in from Paris, as I recall."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
The old man shifted uncomfortably where he stood. "I talked to the fellow. He told me he took the train in yesterday. As I understand it, he's a tobacco lobbyist, and he was in town to meet with some folks up in Washington." Carlson tugged his pack of Pendley Cigarettes from his pocket. "We talked about his work. He seemed a bit ... oh, I don't know ... agitated? I gave him a room, and I haven't seen hide nor hair of him today."  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"Yes, sir," the man explained. "As a matter of fact, he's had a 'Do Not Disturb' sign on his door all day long. My guess is that he's been catching up on his sleep. The maid checked in with me about it, and I told her that, since I had seen how tired he was last night, not to bother with the room. I told her that I'd change the bedding for her. As a matter of fact, I was about to go out and take care of that when you detectives showed up."  
  
Smiling, Guerrero tried, "If that were the case, then Mr. Churney missed his meeting with whomever he came to see." Reaching out, he tried, "Why don't you give us the key, and we'll turn down the sheets if Mr. Churney is out."  
  
Hesitating, Carlson took a step back. "That isn't policy."  
  
"Look, Mr. Carlson," the detective said, "I have it on good word that Mr. Churney might be a bit out of his element. You said so yourself that when you greeted him yesterday evening he wasn't in a good state of mind. With all due respect, I can't allow a civilian like yourself to get caught up if this man flies off the handle ... so why don't you go ahead and give me the key? I promise you that we'll knock before we enter. If it makes you feel any better, you can stand with sight, serving as a witness to everything I say. What do you say?"  
  
Grimacing, the old man finally conceded, slapping the key to Guerrero's palm. He took it, and he gestured toward the door.  
  
"Shall we?"  
  
The three men stepped outside. The traffic on the main road had picked up a bit, but no one was in the act of entering the EverRest's parking lot. Donovan glanced over at the key in Guerrero's hand – Room 106 – and he started in the direction of the room. The detective held up a hand to Carlson, telling him to stay where he was, and he joined the NSA agent as they walked across the pavement toward the door marked '106.'  
  
"Pretty smooth, eh?"  
  
"Don't flatter yourself, Marty," Donovan cracked. "Basically, you scared an old man. That's all I saw back there."  
  
"Yes, but that's what I do every day."  
  
"In that case, you should be proud of yourself."  
  
"Cut me some slack, Craig," the man snapped. "Not all of us get the prime jobs for Uncle Sam."  
  
The detective was right. Donovan realized he had taken a cheap shot, and he apologized. "I didn't mean anything by it, Marty. You're a good cop. You're certainly the best one I've ever known ... and, for what it's worth, I know about your history. I know you tried for the FBI and the CIA, and I think it's too bad that things couldn't have worked out differently for you."  
  
They neared the door, and both men reached to their belts, revealing their pistols but keeping them low and out-of-sight of the aged Mr. Carlson.  
  
"How do we play this?"  
  
Donovan smiled. "You're asking me? You've already convinced the old man that you're calling the shots. How's it going to look it your assistant suddenly takes command?"  
  
Guerrero grinned back at the NSA agent. "You know, for a G-man, you're all right, Donovan."  
  
"Nothing fancy, Marty," the man warned with concern. "You knock on the door. If he doesn't answer, we key the lock." His voice low and focused, Donovan added, "You so much as hear a peep out of DeMarco, and guns go through the door first ... got it?"  
  
"Got it."  
  
Stopping at the end of the sidewalk, Donovan took a spot just out of range of the room's bay window. The building was made of solid brick, so he leaned hard against them, his arm braced and ready to pull up to shoulder height if necessary. From there, he watched as Guerrero walked past the window, stopping briefly to fix his ear to the glass listening for anything – a man talking on a telephone, a television, anything – but he quickly stepped past the curtain-covered glass and reached the door. Glancing back at Donovan, he nodded.  
  
Donovan nodded back.  
  
Reaching up, the detective rapped on the door with a single curled knuckle. Simultaneously, he called out, "Mr. Churney, this is the D.C. Police Department. We'd like to ask you a few questions."  
  
One second.  
  
Two seconds.  
  
Three seconds.  
  
There came no reply.  
  
Smirking, Guerrero rapped on the door again. "Mr. Churney, I'm not going to ask you again. Open the door, please."  
  
One second.  
  
Two seconds.  
  
Three seconds.  
  
Still, there came no reply.  
  
Slowly, the detective raised the key, and, from where he stood, Donovan heard the metal scratch as Guerrero slid the key into the lock.  
  
Suddenly, from over his shoulder, Mr. Carlson cried out, "Detective, I really think that you should let me do that."  
  
Quickly, Donovan glanced back, and he saw that the old man was fastly approaching.  
  
"It's my job, after all," Carlson tried.  
  
Turning quickly, Donovan took a few steps in the old man's direction, and he held up his free hand. "Mr. Carlson, I'm going to have to ask you to step away from the building, sir."  
  
Guerrero slowly turned the key in the lock. He heard the crisp thud of the bolt sliding out of its socket and back into the door.  
  
Carlson took another step closer, and Donovan couldn't risk it. He edged a bit more in the direction of the man, more firmly stating, "Mr. Carlson, I'm going to have to warn you that you're interfering with police business."  
  
His palm hot, Guerrero reached down and took the doorknob in hand. He tightened the hold on his pistol, his finger locked alongside the barrel in the safety mode, a position that would prevent him from accidentally pulling the trigger if something happened to shock him.  
  
Still, the old man wandered another step, and Donovan, his fear for the man pumping the blood through his veins, abandoned his spot and took three steps in the necessary direction. Finally, Carlson saw Donovan's pistol, and he realized that the detective wasn't requesting that he stay back. It was an order.  
  
Taking a breath, Guerrero turned the doorknob and pushed ...  
  
Donovan heard the shock of the explosion before he felt the gale of wind and heat across his back. Somewhere, glass shattered, and he felt the bitter shards firing into his jacket, the gush of hot air throwing first his head forward and, then, his entire body was lifted off his feet, thrown into the air like a leaf blown from the limb of a tree, and he tumbled – head over heels – across open space. His ears cracked from the 'boom' accompanying the blast, and, finally, he hit the ground unevenly – his neck somehow scraping against the sidewalk as his body somersaulted over him. The concrete surface bit into his neck as he cracked his head hard against the stone. The rain of glass stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Donovan rolled onto his back, slapping hard to the ground, sending shock waves of icy hot pain through his entire body. The dull thud of his head striking the sidewalk rattled his teeth, and, without thinking, he did the unthinkable: he let go of his pistol, heard it drop on the concrete, and he drove his hands up to his skulls, cradling it against the pain, shielding his face against the onslaught of steel, brick, and more glass. A wave of heat engulfed him momentarily as the fireball hurtled past him. He closed his eyes, fearing the worst, but even the darkness had started to spin, to twirl, to pirouette in a macabre dance of destruction, of death, of disillusion ... and Craig Donovan, lying there on the sidewalk outside what was left of the burning cave that was once Room 106 of the EverRest Motor Lodge, surrendered to the abyss of unconsciousness, allowing the darkness to claim him and, perhaps, claim his very soul.  
  
END of Chapter 05 


	6. Chapter 06

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 06  
  
Five Days, Twenty-Two Hours, Fifty-Nine Minutes  
  
The Briefing Room was larger than Parker would've imagined, but, then again, the aircraft was a Boeing 707. The last two versions of Air Force One were Boeing 707's, and he knew the amenities aboard the Presidential jet included a small hospital with operating table as well as a major communications center complete with air attack countermeasures. This was, certainly, no small plane. Talmadge sat at the head of the table, a sat/phone pressed to his ear; he was barking his argument into it as the chrononaut entered the room, along with his guide, Finkle. Glancing around the table, he found Olga and Channing, and he moved toward them, clumsily stepping around the chairs, doing the best he could to keep from stumbling or falling on his ass thanks to the weight of his specialized containment suit. He found them, and he took the chair next to Olga. Gesturing, he had Finkle sit next to him.  
  
Turning to the two, Parker asked, "What's the word? What's going on?"  
  
The chrononaut watched as Michelson slipped his hand over Olga's arm protectively. "We don't know, Frank," the man said. "Bradley's on the horn with the White House, trying to get more information right now."  
  
"It doesn't look good," Olga tried weakly, briefing meeting Parker's eyes but quickly turning away.  
  
"What doesn't look good?"  
  
Abruptly, Talmadge switched off the sat/phone and tossed it onto the table. It clanked hard, causing everyone in the room to immediately give him their undivided attention.  
  
The director whirled in his chair to face Parker.  
  
"You'll pardon me if I don't formally call this meeting to order," the director said, "but I'm going to dispense with the pleasantries in order to eliminate the most important issue." Taking a deep breath, he tried, "Frank, I've taken you word – in the past – that when you've come back in time from the future on any BackStep, you've told us everything you know about your mission. From experience, I've learned that that hasn't always been the case. I'm not presuming you've any guilt here. But ... on occasions when you've felt it either necessary, appropriate, or personally convenient, I've discovered that you've withheld some vital piece of information in order to allow for you to – shall we say – truly prove your reputation as a cowboy and save the world all on your own. In some of those instances, you know I looked the other way. When the NSA demanded I take disciplinary action against you, I lied and told them I did."  
  
Aghast, Parker said, "You lied? For me?"  
  
Disgusted, Ramsey spat, "Do you mean to tell me that I had the permission of the federal government to make Parker's life a living hell ... and you didn't even tell me?"  
  
"Yes," Talmadge said. "Truth be told, if you review Frank's personnel file, I think you'll find that you've been sanctioned far more times than you've ever been ... sanctioned. But this isn't any performance review. We're here for one purpose only, and that's to get clarification that this mission – this delicate mission – isn't one of those times that you've carefully filtered information, Frank."  
  
Looking around the table, Parker realized everyone was staring intently.  
  
"Bradley," he tried. "No. Absolutely not. I mean ... yes. In the past, I've withheld information. Some times – on occasions – I've had to. I couldn't take the risk that I said too much about what was happening because it might've affected the way we responded. And ... er ... yes, there were other times that I withheld information for more ... er ... personal reasons ... but I never put the world at risk. I put my career at risk. I put my own life at risk. But I never put the safety of our nation in any danger." Shrugging, he added, "One time or another, I think I even put Ramsey's career at risk, but that was a chance I thought worth taking."  
  
"Parker, if we weren't in a meeting, I'd be royally kicking you butt right about now!" Ramsey shot.  
  
Politely, Michelson offered, "Frank, I think the point that Bradley is trying to make is that, by withholding information, you were making a judgment call that's reserved for his position within the program, not yours."  
  
"Damn straight!" Ramsey cut in.  
  
"That may be Bradley's point," Parker snapped at the other chrononaut, "but the question he's about to ask is whether or not I'm withholding any information now ... am I right, Bradley?"  
  
The director nodded. "That's correct. If you are, then now is the time to come clean."  
  
Parker held up a hand, raising three fingers. "Scouts' honor, boss. I've told you everything I know."  
  
"Scouts' honor?" Ramsey asked incredulous. "Since when were you ever a scout? The Boy Scouts wouldn't have anything to do with you!"  
  
Ignoring the director of security's outburst, Talmadge acknowledged the chrononaut with a quick nod. "All right, then. You've given me your word. I'll take it at face value."  
  
"Why?" Parker pressed. "What is it? What's happened?"  
  
Facing his team, the director showed them his expression of grave seriousness. "At the request of the Department of Homeland Security," he began, "the White House has raised the Terror Alert Level to red."  
  
"Red?" Olga asked. "Doesn't that mean that a terrorist attack is imminent?"  
  
Talmadge nodded. "Olga, according to the White House, the United States is under attack."  
  
"What?" Michelson demanded.  
  
"Almost two hours ago, the United States lost complete control of its satellite monitoring system," the director explained, leaning forward in his chair, pressing his elbows to the table. "The Department of Defense initiated diagnostic procedures to bring the system back under control, but, so far, the system has been unresponsive. However, we have been informed by several nations of the world – those possessing satellites with intelligence gathering capability – that an explosion not unlike a controlled nuclear burst took place in northern Alaska just moments after our space defense grid went black."  
  
"Nuclear?" Nina asked. "Bradley, are you saying that someone has taken the first shot?"  
  
Ramsey slapped his hand to the briefing room table. "I knew it! I knew it!" he shouted. "It's those damn Soviet states! We never should have trusted them to keep their damn fingers off the damn button! And now we're going to pay for it with American blood!"  
  
"Take it easy," Talmadge offered. "There's no cause for panic. Without any satellite images, we don't possess the means to determine what happened in Alaska, but we do have two crucial pieces of information from what our allies with active satellites have been able to share. First: the explosion was non-nuclear, but it was of a magnitude and composition that their scientists have yet to determine." The director took a moment, breathing deeply, before he finished: "Second: the President's son-in-law, Trace Hightower, was apparently the target of the terrorist attack."  
  
Olga gasped. At a White House function, she had met Hightower and his wife, Julianne. They were both so pleasant, so talkative. Julianne had kept talking about her husband, how he was an adventure-seeker willing to go anywhere or risk anything, and Olga remember, at the time, that Trace had distinctly reminded her of Frank Parker. "Is he ... do we know if he's alive?"  
  
"We don't," Talmadge announced. "The White House is working under the assumption that he is, and this would indicate that the terrorist attack has been directed specifically at the First Family." Shifting uncomfortably in the chair – he wished he had ordered BackStep personnel to haul his own Conference Room chair on board as this one was stiff from underuse – the director rapped his knuckles against the table. "As a result, the Secret Service has activated Executive Privilege, and they've taken the President and his family in custody. They're all being held at an undisclosed location so as to belay any further attack on him, his wife, or his daughters."  
  
"So the Vice-President is running the country?" Finkle tried, trying to get a better understanding of the greater cause for alarm.  
  
"Unfortunately, that can't be the case," Ramsey interjected. "The last I knew, the Vice-President was on a goodwill assignment in Great Britain. Another one of those damn executive privileges ... making it look like you're serving national interests but instead you're out playing golf in someone else's backyard."  
  
"Nate is correct," the director confirmed. "The Vice-President is in England. He, as well, has been taken into custody by British Intelligence, and he's being secured as we speak. However, Homeland Security has grounded all air traffic, domestic and international, from entering or leaving U.S. airspace." Gravely, he nodded. "I tried to get an answer as to who is calling the shots at the White House, but I couldn't get any definitive explanation. My guess is that Ethan Stoddard – the President's Chief of Staff – has temporarily been placed in charge, but, again, that's only a guess. However, we've been ordered to turn around and head back for NeverNeverLand ... and that's why I have to ask again, Frank: did any of this happen in the other timeline?"  
  
Parker felt all eyes on him again, and he sensed the temperature rise under his suit.  
  
"Are we sure this thing's climate control system works?" he asked. "It just keeps getting hotter and hotter under here."  
  
"Frank!"  
  
The chrononaut pounded a gloved fist on the table. "Dammit, Bradley! The answer is no! I'm giving you my word! None of this ... not the attack in Alaska ... not the warnings from Homeland Security ... not the grounding of aircraft ... none of this happened in my timeline!" He took a pause to adjust the suit's temperature before adding, "The only thing that matters was that Heston Tower was destroyed by Richard DeMarco, and Majd el Din Zamal was killed in that explosion. Zamal's death caused the administration's plans for peace in the Middle East to fall apart, so the NSA authorized a BackStep for me to go back in time and keep the explosion from happening, to stop DeMarco before he had the chance to kill anyone! I swear to you! That's all that happened!"  
  
"Bradley," Mentnor interrupted quickly, no longer willing to remain silent, "I think it's time that we give Frank the benefit of the doubt and accept the fact that he's told us everything he knows." The scientist leaned forward, reaching out and placing a single hand on the table. "If you remember from our briefing at BackStep Command, Frank was completely surprised to learn that Richard DeMarco was already on American soil. From what he remembers of his timeline, DeMarco hadn't yet arrived in the United States. However, in our timeline, DeMarco is here. Given that fact, I think it's clearly safe to assume that a series of events to which Frank has absolutely no knowledge have been set into motion." He paused for a moment, hoping that everyone present was keeping up with his argument. "When I talked about this being a temporal parallelogram – two timelines that were uniquely similar – I did not mean to imply that every event would be the same. Clearly, in our world, Frank Parker died years ago, and until Channing Michelson came along the program was in disarray. Now, for reasons that neither you nor I have the ability to understand, Parker has been thrust into our timeline. Who knows? Perhaps that single event – perhaps Frank's arrival in our world – has disrupted the flow of time. We may as well figure that we're starting over from scratch in this scenario. That way, none of these events – and I have no doubt that there will be more of them – will come as such a great surprise and only further distract us from putting right whatever is destined to go wrong in our version of the here and now ... but I do suspect that there is one person who can answer all of these questions."  
  
Talmadge didn't ask. He simply raised an eyebrow.  
  
"Larnord," Mentnor explained. "He's asked to see Frank Parker, and for what reason? After all, in Frank's world, Larnord doesn't even exist."  
  
The director squinted as he considered what he heard. "You're right, Isaac. It isn't as if the two of them will be reminiscing about what's happened before. But Larnord has demanded a meeting with Frank, and that means that we have to disobey direct orders from the White House." Talmadge turned and nodded at the suited chrononaut. "We have to get to Washington. That's the only place we're going to get to the bottom of this."  
  
Holding up his hands, Michelson interjected. "Wait a minute, Bradley. You're talking about disobeying an order from ... well ... whoever is our present Commander-in-Chief. Given what's happened, isn't that more than just a little dangerous?"  
  
Talmadge smiled. "Channing, since when did you ever concern yourself with what's dangerous?"  
  
"This is different," the man argued. "We're talking about risking our careers here, Bradley. We're talking about the possibility – however remote – of appearing as if we're committing treason! After all, we're not far from NeverNeverLand. How's it going to look when the White House realizes that we didn't turn back as we were ordered to do?"  
  
Parker laughed. "They're not going to know, Channing! Like Bradley said, they don't have any control over their satellites!"  
  
"Air Traffic Control has redundant systems, Frank," Michelson persisted. "There's more than one way to track a plane."  
  
"That's true," Talmadge agreed, "but with the heightened security that will no doubt be surrounding the White House, it may take several minutes for them to discover that we haven't turned back. By then, who knows how close to Washington we could be?"  
  
"Yes," Olga offered, "but who knows how far we'll be allowed to get?" Everyone at the table turned to study her face. "Once they've realized that we've disobeyed orders, won't they scramble fighter jets to ... shoot us down?"  
  
The room fell quiet as the thought sank in.  
  
After a long pause, Talmadge finally announced: "I've made my decision. We're continuing to Washington. I believe that Frank has told us everything he knows. He's served his country well – in this and in a previous lifetime – and I've no reason to doubt the veracity of his claims." He tapped a finger on the table. "However, in the meantime, I want every person on board this plane focused on gathering every scrap of information possible in order to determine what's going on thirty thousand feet below us. If the United States was subject to another terrorist attack, I want to know about it. If it's something else – some unforeseen event that took the life of the President's son-in-law – then I want to know about that as well." He smiled at the group. "Nathan? You have some old friends in the NSA. I want you to do everything possible to get in touch with them, see what it is they might be able to share with us. Dr. Welles? I'd like you to go to the communications room and see if you can contact any of your associates at the Centers for Disease Control. If the nation's been put on the highest possible alert status, there's no doubt in my mind that Homeland Security has issued a ified briefing to the head of the CDC. See what you can learn ... if anything. Isaac? You left the project for a short while, so there's no doubt in my mind that you have some colleagues in the private sector who can probably shed light on any leaks of this event to the civilian population. If this story has hit the news, then there's bound to be some panic. See what you can find out." He nodded. "The clock is ticking people. Let's get to work. My guess is that we only have a matter of, say, thirty or forty minutes before we're greeted by fighter jets ... and I'd like to have some leverage with which to push past the fighter jockeys." The man grimaced. "We all know how disappointed those boys are when they don't get to blow something up."  
  
END of Chapter 06 


	7. Chapter 07

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 07  
  
Five Days, Twenty-Two Hours, Thirty-One Minutes  
  
One of the fringe benefits of working with the world's leading faces in the fashion and modeling business was the limousines. No matter what time of the day or night Indiri Farris needed a ride, there was always a car available. Instead of taking a cab or her agency car, she insisted on having a limo drop her at the Heston. After all, this was her first date – her first dinner with what she hoped would open the door for a second – with the suave, exciting, world-traveled Richard DeMarco, and she refused to show up playing the part of a commoner. She realized he probably wouldn't be watching when she arrived, but that didn't matter. What did matter was how she cared about herself. 'Think a winner,' she had always reminded herself and her models, 'and be a winner.' It was a simple philosophy, but it sometimes helped to 'keep it real' when dealing with the brainpower of some of the models. Granted, the industry had evolved over the last dozen years – she had been involved with it for far too long to recite all of the changes – but more and more of the sincere beauties – male and female – were business-savvy: they knew at a very young age that a career in modeling wouldn't last forever, so they were making investments with their money, they were preparing themselves to serve as fashion correspondents when their looks faded from magazine cover glory, and they were even doing as she had done – starting their own talent agencies – as soon as their personal fortunes could make a dream into a reality. Thankfully, Indiri had exercised good judgment all of her life. Her father had insisted on it – she had a very passionate love/hate relationship still going with her divorced mother – and dear ole dad had insisted that she make the business – her business – an investment, a long-term prospect for a lifetime of income ... and it had worked. Hers was a recognized name in a cutthroat industry ... but, tonight, the only person she wanted to recognize her was the dark and handsome Mr. DeMarco.  
  
The limo pulled into the lane before the Heston, and the hotel's valet immediately stepped over, opened her door, extended his hand, and helped her from the car. She smiled at the young man and was preparing to offer him a few polite words of thanks when surprise overtook her as her date for the evening – dressed in a fine black silk Armani suit with a white silk form-fitting crew collar shirt appeared almost instantly.  
  
"Young man," DeMarco said, his voice sounding as smooth as velvet, "I believe you are holding the hand of my lady."  
  
"My apologies, sir," the valet tried. He steered Indiri's hand into the older man's, and, tactfully, he slipped her fingers into his. "I compliment you on your taste in women."  
  
"Thank you," DeMarco replied. He slipped the valet a $20 bill – Indiri thought the tip was more for her benefit than the valet's – and grinned hungrily at her.  
  
"Well," she offered, "this certainly is a surprise."  
  
"Whatever do you mean?" Turning gracefully, he slipped her fingers from his hand to his arm. She gripped his forearm and allowed for the man of international charm to escort her into the Heston. "Are you unaccustomed to such courtesy, Ms. Farris?"  
  
She nodded at him. "I'm unaccustomed to such eagerness on the part of any suitor, Mr. DeMarco."  
  
He chuckled warmly at her, and the sound of his laughter vibrated in her stomach. She realized how much she was feeling like a teenager with a schoolgirl crush, but it certainly felt good. Washington men – if she had known as much, she never would've placed her agency in the nation's Capitol – were largely ... gruesome and manipulative. Oh, they were charming, indeed. In fact, one couldn't be successful in politics without an abundance of charm, but the charm wore off quickly under the shadow of a trophy-bride/wife (in some cases, wives!) or the sexually-inquisitive interns or the bed-hopping mistresses. There weren't many men to celebrate in a city dedicated to celebrating men – damn women's suffrage – and Indiri enjoyed the dark stranger's touch even more because of it.  
  
He led her through the lobby and toward the archway of the Abendessen, the Heston's signature restaurant. The maitre de greeted the two of them with impeccable politeness, and he made chit-chat as he escorted them to their table. A dinner menu and a wine list later, Indiri found herself being closely studied by her charming suitor. She glanced up to find his eyes staring into hers, and, feigning embarrassment, she widened her eyes back at him.  
  
"Richard!" she teased.  
  
He laughed, and, again, she felt it in her stomach. It had been so long – far too long – that she had been in the company of such a handsome and interesting man. She was afraid that she was about to say the wrong thing – make an inappropriate comment about the world, about religion, about politics, about clothing, for God's sake – and that his interest in her would wane quickly. People were so fickle that she had decidedly recent never to even attempt to start a conversation for fear of introducing the wrong topic, but, at this point, he wasn't saying anything. He was, simply, watching her.  
  
"Tell me more about yourself," she tried.  
  
"There really is very little to tell, Indiri," he told her. "I was born ... oh, shall we say that was many years ago? I was raised by a very, very lovely woman."  
  
"Are you close to your mother?"  
  
With some pain, he smiled. "I was, yes."  
  
There. It had happened already. She made a mental note to jot down on her desk blotter a new record time for turning off a man.  
  
"Oh, Richard," she offered, "I'm so sorry."  
  
"No, no," he insisted. "Death ... it is a part of life, no?"  
  
"Of course, it is, but I'm so sorry."  
  
Lifting his head, he noticed the waiter coming. He silently mouthed the word 'later,' and she nodded happily.  
  
The waiter poured their glasses of wine and quickly disappeared to another table where he was called by a large man who appeared very unhappy with his meal.  
  
DeMarco lifted his glass and swirled the merlot. "Indiri, my mother was a very beautiful woman, and she lived a very beautiful life. It was full of purpose. It was full of joy. Like any of us, she suffered her share of disappointments, but I find comfort in knowing that she died as she lived, true to her heart ... and loving her only son."  
  
Again, Indiri heard his words, and her heart fluttered.  
  
"She raised a remarkable young man, it appears."  
  
"You are too kind."  
  
"I mean it," Indiri persisted. "Richard, certainly you've done your share of traveling, and certainly you've entertained people from all over the world. You must know that – despite a very human desire to hope that every man and woman you meet has some goodness in them – not everyone is raised to show so much as a simple courtesy to his fellow man."  
  
"Or fellow woman," he agreed.  
  
"Then," she began, lifting her own glass, "let's toast to courtesy."  
  
He sat back, still grinning at her. "Now, that is not very romantic."  
  
"No," she agreed, "but it is very real."  
  
Still twirling the glass slowly in his hand, he offered, "I would rather toast ourselves than to toast a world that has turned its back of humanity, Indiri. Please, don't misunderstand me. I am ... I am much like you. I have looked for the goodness in people. I have looked for manners. I have looked for basic consideration. But I have found very little. I hold out hope that I will someday find more of it, but, for tonight, I would very much like to celebrate the simple romantic idea ... of us."  
  
He raised his glass, and she followed.  
  
Throughout the meal, they talked about everything. He told her about his youth – most of his stories surrounding his mother – and she found herself, as usual – talking more and more and more about her business. Conscious of the fact that agency chatter tended to become incredibly boring incredibly quickly, she kept trying to steer the conversation away into areas of more personal interest, but, ever the gentlemen, DeMarco kept insisting on hearing more about her, her life, and her daily trials and tribulations. Surrendering to his inquiries, they laughed over the stories she told. They enjoyed an exquisite meal and even more entertaining conversation ... and Indiri couldn't suppress her growing desire to reach across the table to feel his warm hand again. Would that be so wrong? Would that be inappropriate? In her profession, it wasn't uncommon to develop an attraction for a beautiful male right away. After all, she was surrounded by perfect faces, perfect teeth, and perfect bodies throughout much of the day ... but she had found, over time, that the human body was more of a 'case' than it was a 'vase,' as someone had once warned her. Still, here she sat, wanting so badly to feel little more than the warmth of a man's hand. Would it be so bad?  
  
Had so become so disconnected with herself that she had sunk to this?  
  
"Richard," she tried nervously.  
  
"What is it?"  
  
Their waiter had delivered the tab, and her date – still the gentleman – was reaching into his lapel pocket for his wallet.  
  
"Indiri?"  
  
'No,' she told herself. 'There wasn't anything wrong with it.'  
  
Proudly, she lifted her head. She smiled at him, staring into his dark eyes, and she found the confidence to slowly slide her hand across the table. He saw what she was doing, and, in compromise, he reached across to her. They touched, their fingers lacing, and there again was the warmth she had felt on the curb outside of the Heston. She sighed peacefully, happily, and she enjoyed the satisfaction of simple human contact.  
  
"What is it, Indiri?"  
  
"I don't know," she confessed. "It's just ... well ... I hate to sound like a little girl ..."  
  
"And," he said, smiling, "I have the suspicion that you are going to say it anyway."  
  
"Why is that?"  
  
"Because I would like very much to hear what you have to say."  
  
She grinned. Did he feel what she felt? Was it possible to forge a connection that went beyond a basic instinct so quickly in today's age of marital collapse ... or was this simply just another statistic leading to the need for a hook-up?  
  
God, she hated that term.  
  
"I wanted to feel your hand," she said. "That's all."  
  
He focused on her eyes. He wasn't smiling. He was staring. She hoped she read words that he didn't have to say, didn't need to say, or perhaps didn't want to say in that gaze.  
  
Reaching out with his other hand, he opened the bill's folder, and she looked down. On top of the receipt was a room key.  
  
"Indiri," he began, "we are both far too ... wise ... to spend an evening alone, going back to our separate houses or our separate apartments when we've been given an opportunity for the night to mean far much more to us." He stiffened a bit, and she was surprised that he found it difficult to ask a woman to stay with him. "I ... like you ... have been alone for far too long. Yes ... like you ... my commitment to my work ... well, it has driven me to a state of loneliness that one accepts when you get to be of a certain ... of a certain age." He said the word like it was a curse, and she agreed that it was. "I would never be so bold as to assume that a woman ... a beautiful and talented and extraordinary woman ... would entertain the notion of sacrificing her personal code of honor to ..."  
  
"Richard," she interrupted softly.  
  
"Hmm?"  
  
She smiled. "Shut up."  
  
In the elevator, he was on her, his lips on her neck, and she felt the warmth in her stomach of passion, of an unbridled spirit. He kissed her gently, increasing his intensity until his desire overtook him, and his mouth tracing up the muscle in her neck and found her jaw. Gently, he bit down there, and she gasped, bringing her arms up around his back, pulling him closer, pressing all of herself to him. Finally, their mouths found one another, and they kissed, deeply, locked together, both breathing heartily and heavily, one of his arms wrapped like a vise around her waist and the other clutching the back of her neck firmly ... as the elevator took them up to the seventh floor.  
  
END of Chapter 07 


	8. Chapter 08

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 08  
  
Five Days, Twenty-One Hours, Seventeen Minutes  
  
The sun streaming down on his unshaven face, Frank Parker closed his eyes, felt the intoxicating warmth on his skin, inhaled a breath of fresh air – smelling the hint of lilac on the wind – and he knew he was dreaming. Still, he kept his eyes closed, and he enjoyed the dream. Birds chirped, bees hummed, and the breeze whispered in his ears, but he stayed focused on relaxation, a technique he had learned long ago, in therapy, while undergoing psychiatric observation from battle fatigue. For the first time in a few days, he was at peace, allowing nature to control his heartbeat, his existence, and he couldn't imagine a greater feeling of serenity, a stronger sensation of ecstasy, or a more rewarding fascination than that of self-meditation.  
  
'Well, there was beer ...'  
  
He ignored the thought, smiling at the childish inner remark.  
  
'Yeah, but a beer would be pretty good right now.'  
  
In his dream, he reached up and slapped himself.  
  
'Ouch! Boy, I could sure use a cold one ...'  
  
The birds faded as they flew into the distance, the hum of the wind increasing. It tugged at his hair, his shirt, and he decided that he would continue to ignore it for as long as the dream allowed. He had no control over where the vision of his subconscious was taking him, but, despite his blurbs about alcohol, he guessed it wasn't going to take him out for a night to paint the town red. He leaned back, the force of the wind increasing evermore, and, to his surprise, he realized that the sound had grown from a whisper to a groan to a rumbling howl ... in the distance ... but moving steadily and stealthily closer to him.  
  
Was it his imagination, or was the wind – the storm – drawn to him?  
  
'I'd rather have Olga drawn to me,' he thought. 'And ... I still wouldn't mind that beer.'  
  
Mixed inside the wind, he heard ... noise. Not one noise, but many noises. With his eyes still closed, he concentrated hard on what he heard, hoping that he could decipher everything. There were ... faint ... clearly miles and miles away ... perhaps in another city in this entirely fictitious environment ... but he couldn't suppress the feeling that there was something decidedly 'real' about how they sounded.  
  
He heard a car alarm.  
  
No.  
  
He heard many car alarms. They honked and chirped and whistled and whined together in a cacophony of manufactured warnings.  
  
He heard glass shattering and the subsequent tinkling of shards thrown in a senseless pattern across a concrete surface.  
  
He heard ... was that grinding?  
  
A blanket of snow flashed under his closed eyelids, and the growl of an explosion shook his meditating body. The white quickly slipped back into the darkness, and then he heard ...  
  
What was it?  
  
What was that sound?  
  
It was ... mechanical, he thought. It was a grinding, churning, hissing roar of machinery, coupled by the gibberish of turning an old style radio dial, blending together nearly incomprehensible snippets of announcers, of music, of tones, of frantic voices, of even more and more and more automated alarms ... but, through it all, he could hear a song.  
  
"It's two a.m.," someone – a man – sang. "The fear is gone."  
  
'What's the name of that one?' Parker thought.  
  
He hummed the tune, despite the lyrics escaping him, lying on the edge of his brain the way a mountain climber hangs precariously from the side of a peak.  
  
"I'm sitting here waiting," the man continued, "the gun's still warm."  
  
'What's the name of that one?'  
  
It had a definite bass undercurrent, and the main singer's voice told him that it was a rock song. He thought – he believed – the song was from the 1970's, but he couldn't be certain.  
  
"Yeah, there's a storm on the loose," the prophet warned him, "sirens in my head. Wrapped up in silence, all circuits are dead. Cannot decode – my whole life spins into a frenzy."  
  
Frank heard the refrain, but, still, the song's title escaped him. He pursed his lips as he tried to force that inkling closer into his consciousness – this was a dream, after all – but the fact wouldn't listen. It was clearly being tossed like a scrap of paper helplessly caught in the wind and the noise and the cacophony and the bitterness and the voices and the alarms and none of it – regardless of how hard he tried to tune it all out – would ever go away.  
  
"Where am I to go now that I've gone too far?"  
  
With a start, Parker awoke in his bed ... only to find himself still trapped in the Boeing's isolation chamber. He shook his head, trying to clear the remnants of the dream from his mind, and, as quickly as they had overwhelmed him, they were gone ... except for the last line of the song that defied the crashing noise of the mental storm. To himself, he whispered, "Where am I to go now that I've gone too far?"  
  
"Hmm?" he heard.  
  
Glancing to his left, he found Dr. Welles and Ebdon Finkle had fallen asleep over a hand of cards. Welles, no longer concealed within her CDC suit as Parker had agreed to sleep in his (with the self-controlled air conditioning turned way off the scale), lifted her head slowly from where she had rested it on her forearm. "Did you say something, Frank?"  
  
"Nina?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"Are you any good at trivia?"  
  
Yawning and stretching, she sat up in the chair. "I don't know," she admitted. "Are we talking science?"  
  
"No, no."  
  
"Then what?"  
  
"Music," Parker told her. "Lyrics."  
  
Craning her neck, Nina made the vertebrae pop loudly. She grimaced, saying, "I don't know. I was never really good at socializing, Frank, to be perfectly honest. I didn't get out much during college and while I studied for my masters. You know the type. I was pretty much a bookworm. I wouldn't have caught your eye."  
  
"Don't say that," Parker laughed. "You have no idea what would've caught my eyes. I didn't have enough eyes for everything that caught my eye, so you probably would've fallen on my radar anyway."  
  
She frowned at him. "That wasn't exactly reassuring."  
  
"I'm sorry," he admitted, "it's just that I have this song lyric stuck in my head for some reason. You know how they say to pay attention to your dreams? I don't know if it means anything, but I can't remember the song."  
  
She studied his expression. "Give me what you remember."  
  
"It's two a.m.," he recited, "the fear is gone." Grimacing, he added, "Something something something. Then, it goes 'I'm sitting here waiting, the gun's still warm.'"  
  
Smiling, she said, "That's easy. That's 'Twilight Zone.' It's by Golden Earring. I know that one. I love that song."  
  
"Twilight Zone?" He shrugged. "God, if that isn't appropriate."  
  
"What do I win?"  
  
Still somewhat mesmerized by the lyrics, he whispered, "Where am I to go now that I've gone too far?"  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"The refrain," he confessed. "The song asks 'where am I to go now that I've gone too far?'" He wrinkled his forehead in confusion. "What do you suppose that means?"  
  
"Other than the fact that you're creeping me out?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
She shrugged, craning her neck for another bout. "I don't know. I suppose your subconscious could be expressing your feelings of guilt."  
  
"Guilt? What feelings of guilt?"  
  
"You know," she tried. "You're here. In another timeline. Your presence here is a threat to life. I don't know about you, but that fact alone would weight pretty heavy on my mind."  
  
That wasn't it. He knew that wasn't it. But he couldn't figure out what it was supposed to mean, what his subconscious was trying to tell his conscious self. "Yeah," he finally agreed. "I guess so." He pulled his lips tight across his teeth. "I guess I'm feeling kind of useless."  
  
Again, her neck cracked, and she released a quick sigh. "How do you mean?"  
  
"Well, everyone's busy trying to figure out what's going on thirty thousand feet below us," he explained. "Here I sit ... and I can't do a thing ... thanks to this happy little get-up."  
  
"Happy little get-up?" she asked, and her tone warned him that she was insulted.  
  
"What?" he tried. "Did you make this suit?"  
  
"Well, the CDC is behind it, yes," she told him. Pointing at him, she added, "I was on one of the first-draft committees. We needed an entirely self-contained system, and a lot of the gadgets on that thing were some of the brightest ideas in my career." Holding up her hand, she ticked off with her fingers, "The rebreathing filtration system. The food intake system. The waste removal system. The external comm. system." She shrugged. "Granted, what you're outfitted in is very similar to the suits worn by NASA astronauts, but the comm system was my real brainchild."  
  
"What comm system?" he asked. "Olga never said anything about a comm system."  
  
Rising, Nina walked over to where he sat in his bunk. "She probably didn't know, Frank. Here." Pointing down to his left arm, she took hold of his forearm and turned it slightly upright. There, he saw a faceplate with a series of digital interfaces. "This key gives you localized communications interlinks with tactical teams. You know? Closed circuit. Short-wave. If you're in the field, you can stay in touch with other members of your team with it." She tapped another key. "This gives you what I called communications overlap, but I'm sure the guys up at MIT came up with some wonderful acronym for it. Basically, it's like a radio receiver. You can use it to monitor into communications being broadcast locally. Radio. Television. Even remote walkie-talkie and short wave on variable frequencies. Also, you can use this ..." She pointed at a flat green button bearing the crest of a very small microphone. "... to tap into that communication. The software allows you to isolate a particular frequency or channel, and you can join into the conversation ... well, not with the radio or television broadcasts, but the walkie-talkie and short wave." She tapped another button. "This one gives you access to the nation's complete wireless network."  
  
"You're kidding me!" he exclaimed. "You mean ... I have my own phone?"  
  
"Well, we never knew what ultimate purpose the suit would serve," she continued. "We trusted all along that, if a chrononaut came through from another timeline, he or she would have a mission to complete, and we tried to prepare for every possible contingency ... especially if we were faced with the unimaginable challenge of sending you into the field."  
  
The thought of various time-travelers popping in and out of parallel dimensions suddenly overtook him, and Parker asked, "How many others have there been?"  
  
Nina closed her eyes as she mentally did the math. "There have been, at least, a dozen that I know of."  
  
"A dozen versions of me?"  
  
"Oh, no," she said, opening her eyes. "You're the first version of Frank Parker that's come through."  
  
"The others ... who were they?"  
  
"Men, mostly," she admitted, "much like yourself." Smiling, she added, "There were a few women, though, and that makes me proud. That's also why I designed the suit unisex."  
  
"Do you mean ... I'm wearing women's clothing?"  
  
"You're wearing unisex protective gear, Frank."  
  
"But a woman could wear this?"  
  
"As could any man."  
  
He grimaced. "Do me a favor?"  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"When we get to Washington, don't tell Donovan that I'm wearing women's clothing."  
  
"It's unisex, Frank."  
  
"You don't know Donovan."  
  
"No, but I do know unisex."  
  
He shook his head. "I can't believe I'm wearing women's clothing."  
  
She held up her hands. "Let it go, Frank."  
  
Casually, she reached back toward the table and pulled her chair closer, sitting down in front of him.  
  
"How many people died as a result of those other chrononauts coming through?" Parker wondered aloud.  
  
Nina grimaced. Clearly, he had disturbed some unhappy memories. He had stirred up a series of recollections that she didn't want to relive, but she replied, "I don't know if I could give you a headcount. I know that some incidents were far worse than others." Frowning, her eyes lost focus as she honed in on a single memory. "Nothing was as bad as Alamogordo, though. That was ... without question, that was the worst."  
  
He leaned forward a bit. "What happened?"  
  
She raised an eyebrow, releasing a heavy sigh. "I don't know all of the details, Frank. I don't have the necessary clearance for sealed chronological events, but, seeing as how I was part of the first response team, I know a little." She tilted her head. "That one ... that mission was a man named William Kelley. I believe he had been a deep cover CIA operative for several years before being recruited to BackStep. He was brought in as a secondary pilot, but the primary died when some of the Earth circuitry incorporated into the Sphere took a power surge from the technology of alien components. He ... from what I recall from Kelley ... the original chrononaut fried in the chair."  
  
"Holy hell," Parker said.  
  
"Yes," she agreed. "I would imagine that would be quite ugly." Sniffing a bit, she continued: "Anyway, Kelley was sent back seven days to stop the launching of a new intercontinental missile being tested at White Sands, New Mexico. Apparently, the missile's guidance systems contained a back door that operating engineers were unaware of. The system's designer – a man named Tildon – had been kidnapped, unbeknownst to our government, by some radical North Korean general. In the original timeframe, the missile launched, but instead of detonating harmlessly over international waters, it destroyed the entire metropolitan area of Chicago." She shuddered in her chair. "Kelley was able to alert White Sands in plenty of time, but, like you, he wasn't aware that his appearance in our timeline was dangerous to anyone." She shook her head. "He didn't check in with Director Talmadge when he arrived in our world because, as luck would have it, he knew a high ranking official at the White Sands testing facility. He simply made a telephone call, explained what was going to happen with the missile, and the test was aborted. Then ... then he wandered into Alamogordo."  
  
She grew silent, but Parker had to know.  
  
"How bad was it?"  
  
Her eyes watered a bit, but she didn't cry. "In the first hour, twelve thousand people died," she explained. "There was ... there was some kind of festival going on, and Kelley just wandered right into the middle of it ... completely unaware of the damage he was doing."  
  
"How ..." Parker tried to find the words. "How did that happen so fast?"  
  
"He touched someone," she said. "Or ... someone saw him ... saw how he was dressed in that orange suit of yours ... and they grabbed him. A couple of men. Kelley fought them off." Glancing at him, he noticed that her eyes had grown red. "When you make contact, Frank, the contamination accelerates. I couldn't tell you how fast, but ... it's fast. People were, literally, dropping dead within minutes. Those who tried to help those who were infected were doing far worse by cross-contaminating themselves and anyone else they touched. Of course, the panic spread ... and thirty thousand people were dead by nightfall."  
  
Parker didn't utter a word.  
  
"It isn't your fault, Frank," she whispered. "It was no one's fault. Everything happened so fast that, even Kelley, no one had any idea of what happened. The government covered it up with a story about the release of an airborne toxin that was smuggled into our country through Mexico. Hell, we're fighting the War on Terror as it is ... no one gave the validity of the story a second thought."  
  
The two sat in silence for a long time. Every few minutes, she would suck in a heavy, wet breath, and Parker knew that she fought back her sobs. She was a beautiful woman with an understated chemistry. She didn't dress up her hair in a charming bundled. She let it face gracefully about her face, bangs ending just above her eyes. She had a small but firm-looking chin, and her cheekbones gave off the impression of royalty. He wanted to reach out and hold her, to cradle her in his arms for a moment of peace and solitude, but, out of respect for what fears must've been bubbling within her heart, he refrained.  
  
"What can I do, Nina?" he asked.  
  
She looked at him, studying the grim expression on his face. She trusted that he had taken a lesson away from what she had told him, and Frank Parker didn't need any lectures. He had traveled through time – on hundreds of occasions – and had spared countless lives from tragedies that could have – and would have – been far worse than the Alamogordo incident.  
  
"Just do me one favor?" she asked.  
  
"You name it."  
  
She nodded. "Don't take off that suit."  
  
END of Chapter 08 


	9. Chapter 09

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 09  
  
Five Days, Twenty Hours, Forty-Nine Minutes  
  
Quietly, DeMarco sat up in bed. He slid out from the covers easily, careful not to wake the sleeping beauty lying next to him. Planting his feet firmly on the floor, he felt around for his clothing, found it, and cautiously slipped into his socks, underwear, and slacks. From the bottom drawer of the nightstand table, he found the black fitted nylon shirt that Matthew had left for him ... along with the small knapsack. He stood, pulling the shirt over his head. Clipping the sack to his belt loop, he picked up his swipecard room key – technology never seemed to amaze him – and he left the room.  
  
He walked down the hallway, glancing up slightly at the security camera monitoring his every movement ... but it was of little concern.  
  
'Let them record me,' he thought. 'It will only intensify their grief once I have finished what I came here to do ... that I was here ... that I was recorded ... and yet no one lifted a finger to stop me.'  
  
Reaching the stairwell, he turned the knob and stepped into the hollow. Matthew and Lisa, both dressed in black, stood waiting.  
  
"I certainly hope you had fun," Lisa teased, her voice above a whisper.  
  
Smiling, DeMarco replied, "One must do ... what one must do."  
  
He passed his room key to her, and Lisa slipped it into her pocket.  
  
"Let her sleep for an hour more," DeMarco said.  
  
"And then?"  
  
The man showed no expression when he ordered, "Do with her as you wish."  
  
The American woman nodded. "How would you like me to kill her?"  
  
DeMarco understood the fascination with taking another life. He had killed dozens, hundreds, if not thousands of innocents ... all for a variety of causes he served, noble or not. He understood what Lisa was thinking, and he found himself attracted to her more than before.  
  
"Be creative ... but be quick. And, for God's sake, don't make a mess of it."  
  
With an evil grin, Lisa disappeared down the stairwell.  
  
"Let me explain the set-up for you, my friend," Matthew offered. Reaching out, he cracked open the stairwell door far enough for the two of them to glance out into the hallway. "When you walked down the hallway, you undoubtedly noticed the surveillance camera. The Heston is loaded with them, ten to a floor ... except for the seventh floor. It has only three. Two of them are trained in the direction of the opposite stairwells, and the third one is trained on the middle of the three elevators."  
  
"Why so few on this floor?"  
  
Matthew smiled. "Did you honestly think I was going to have one my closest and dearest friends in the world come all the way to Washington, D.C., and that I wouldn't get you the best suite available?"  
  
"You are too kind."  
  
"Let's agree that I know a thing or two of being hospitable." The man shrugged. "Then again, so does the Heston. Granted, Las Vegas has been called 'Sin City,' but I tell you, my friend, that more sinning happens on this floor in any given year than happens in any casino across this country." Glancing through the crack in the door, he explained, "The Heston is a favorite for local politicians and international dignitaries who are looking for the same kind of release you enjoyed. Only the highest caliber escorts in the country do business on this floor, and, for that reason, security on Floor Seven is kept to a minimum. That way, no one gets alarmed that a wayward videotape might find its way into the hands of the doting trophy bride back home." He pointed at the hallway outside. "The stairwell cameras are of no concern. They have no microphones, and they're on fixed studs. The elevator camera is a different deal entirely. While it's in a fixed position, it has a wide angle lens. It's primary purpose, however, is to monitor that middle elevator shaft."  
  
"Why the middle one?"  
  
"Because, my friend, the middle shaft is the only one that extends beyond the lobby into the subterranean levels," Matthew said. "And that's precisely where we want to go."  
  
DeMarco nodded.  
  
"I managed to boobytrap the camera with a micro-electromagnetic pulse weapon I took off an Israeli intelligence officer I killed during my stay in Berlin," the American continued. "It's a grenade the size of a fingernail, a new form of biocircuitry the Israelis took off the British. Once the thing detonates, the camera's programming will be wiped clean, and security will dispatch a repairman. He'll come up from the first underground level, and, by my guesswork, it will take him two and one-half minutes – no more, no less – to arrive at this floor." He pointed at the elevator. "You and I must be inside that elevator's shaft before he arrives. According to the building schematics, there are construction conduits for building wiring there large enough to hold a man on each side. We stay in place while the technician reboots the camera. Once he's finished, we drop – as gentle as a feather – onto the top of the elevator, and we're heading in the direction you've always wanted to go."  
  
Smiling, Demarco grinned. "Straight towards hell?"  
  
"Not in a hand basket, but via elevator."  
  
"That works for me, Matthew."  
  
"Then you're ready?"  
  
"I've been waiting for this moment."  
  
"Let's get to it, Richard."  
  
Matthew produced a small detonator from his pocket, and he pressed the red button. From where they stood, they heard a metallic click. DeMarco saw that the small red bulb on the rear of the elevator camera went out.  
  
"Move."  
  
They stepped into the hallway, walked to the elevator, and DeMarco produced a wedge from his knapsack. Slapping it to the crack, he shoved it in, wiggling it so that it would tap the safety bar, and, after a brief delay, the doors opened a bit. Stowing the wedge, he wrapped his fingers around one door's edging – Matthew taking the other – and they pulled in unison, opening the doors and loosing a gush of hot air that resided within the dark shaft.  
  
"Stay clear of the car tow cables," Matthew suddenly warned. "Security has them tagged with a low-grade electric current to keep anyone from sliding down them."  
  
DeMarco marveled, "These Americans are so clever."  
  
"Not clever enough, my friend."  
  
Squinting into the darkness, the terrorist saw the alcove on the right side of the shaft. It was wide enough for him, but, should he leap too far, he would miss a foothold and plummet through the opening and into the maw of the adjacent elevator shaft. Certainly, he would fall – seven stories – to his death. His movement would have to be precise.  
  
The two of them heard the rumbling of the elevator car far below.  
  
"There's our man," Matthew concluded.  
  
"Then I will go first."  
  
His arms extended, DeMarco leapt from the platform. He cut through the warm air, remaining calm. His hands found the metal girder first, wrapping around the edge and pulling himself forward. Easily, he found solid ground. He ducked his head, pulling it close to his chest, and he slipped into the gap. Glancing back the way he had come, he gave a quick 'thumbs up' to Matthew.  
  
The American heard the slow but constant grind as the elevator rose up the shaft toward them. He guessed they were down to under one minute of the technician's arrival, and he knew he couldn't wait any longer. Reaching out, he jumped from the platform, his right arm flailing, and he found a steel tube that protected wiring that ran down the shaft. However, his foot missed the alcove, and he quickly dropped ... until his knee caught the steel edging, and he released a controlled gasp of pain. Pulling on the tube, he righted himself in the alcove, slipping past several additional conduits just as the elevator came into view.  
  
On the platform, the doors closed, and the two men found themselves eclipsed by total darkness.  
  
END of Chapter 09 


	10. Chapter 10

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 10  
  
Five Days, Twenty Hours, Forty Minutes  
  
... beep ... beep ... beep ...  
  
Craig Donovan lay perfectly still, eyes closed, mentally focusing on the electronic 'ping' keeping pace with his heartbeat.  
  
... beep ... beep ... beep ...  
  
He felt the dull ache of his back, the raw sensation at the base of his skull, the pain at the back of his eyes. He opened his eyes and stared up at the white ceiling.  
  
... beep ... beep ... beep ...  
  
He realized he was almost completely naked under the hospital blanket, an IV hanging from his left arm. He glanced up at the clear fluid, and he watched the drips of whatever wonderful chemical was taking the pain away from the accident.  
  
... beep ... beep ... beep ...  
  
He blinked his eyes, his vision momentarily blurring, the view of the room clouding over. He watched as a shape rose and moved closer to the bed, nearer to him, and he saw the fuzzy light shining around the shape, filling in the aura with a faint haze.  
  
"Craig?" Terrence Simon asked softly. "Are you awake?"  
  
... beep ... beep ... beep ...  
  
For a moment, the agent wished he could stay there, perfectly still, hypnotized by the sound of the heart monitor clicking off every pat of his chest. He knew he couldn't. A tremor rose in him, and he lifted his head quickly ... too quickly. The world suddenly slipped off its axis, and the room began to spin. As the colors of the room twirling in front of his eyes, Donovan felt a warm hand on his forearm.  
  
"Craig, take it easy."  
  
Weakly, he muttered, "Simon?"  
  
"It's me, Craig."  
  
The agent closed his eyes, trying to find some stability.  
  
"Just take a few breaths, buddy. No sudden moves."  
  
Donovan did as the man suggested. After several deep breaths, he felt as though the planet had found its axis again, and the colors began to focus into real shapes – a television hanging on the wall, a sliding closet door on a single track, the five-foot-nine-inch frame of NSA Field Director Terrence Simon.  
  
... beep ... beep ... beep ...  
  
"Turn that off," Donovan mumbled.  
  
"Not just yet, buddy."  
  
"Terry, it's getting on my nerves ... and I said turn it off."  
  
"Nurse!" the man cried out as a woman in white entered the room. "Nurse, could we turn that off. It's keeping my agent awake."  
  
"I can mute it, Mr. Simon," she assured him.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
... beep ... beep ... click.  
  
"Thank you, nurse," Donovan said.  
  
"You're very welcome," she replied.  
  
"How are you feeling?"  
  
With some effort, Donovan lifted his head and smiled at her. "I'm afraid I'll have to take a pass at the next marathon."  
  
"That's understandable," she agreed, smiling. He felt her fingers on his wrist, and he trusted that she was measuring his vitals. She didn't trust the equipment, he guessed, and he had been told by many friends of his that that was the sign of a good nurse. Never put faith in the machinery. Put faith in what you can touch. That was as good a mantra as Donovan could imagine. "Do you know your name?"  
  
"Craig Donovan," he answered.  
  
"Do you know what year it is?"  
  
These were common questions, he knew, for anyone suffering a head injury or major trauma. "The year is 2004," he said, "and I'm another year older, not another year wiser."  
  
"Do you know who's President?"  
  
"Yes, I do," Donovan stated flatly, "and I'm proud to say that I never voted for him."  
  
"Craig," Simon warned.  
  
"Actually, I never voted ... period," the agent corrected.  
  
The nurse – a very attractive blonde with a red stethoscope – smiled down at him. "I'll take that as a 'yes.'"  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Thank you for waking up to see us."  
  
"I had every intention."  
  
"That's good to hear." The nurse glanced over at the director. "You can have a few minutes with Mr. Donovan now, but he needs his rest."  
  
"I understand."  
  
Briskly, she marched noiselessly from the room.  
  
"I never understood how they could do that," Donovan observed.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Walk" he said, "without making a sound." He grimaced. "You'd think those shoes would at least squeak."  
  
"Craig, where were you?"  
  
Donovan took another deep breath. He blinked his eyes several times, clearing the cobwebs from his brain. He thought back to the last image in his mind, and, like a wildfire spreading out of control over a dry wooded countryside, everything came back to him. The hotel. The explosion. Marty.  
  
"Marty?" he asked.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Detective Marty Guerrero," he spat through teeth clenched from the pain he felt in his back. "Where's Marty?"  
  
Softly, Simon replied, "Marty's dead, Craig."  
  
Oh, no.  
  
Overwhelmed with a kind of grief he never anticipated, Donovan dropped his head back to the pillow. He ignored the sudden onset of stars and fireflies flickering at the borders of his vision, and he blocked out the shiver of flame that shot up his spine. Instead, he felt the cold churning of his stomach, and he knew he wanted to throw up, but he wouldn't. He wouldn't give his body the satisfaction of letting it out. He wouldn't refuse the pain, the suffering, the news of losing his friend. He ground his teeth together more tightly than before, and he closed his eyes, forcing hot breath through his nostrils. He wouldn't let the pain go away that easily. A man had died. It was his fault that a man had died. He should've been there. He should've been at the door instead of allowing Marty the chance to play the role of the hero. He should've refused the man's desire to involve himself so centrally in such a delicate matter? What had he been thinking? What had Donovan been thinking?  
  
How could today have gone so horribly wrong?  
  
"What happened?" Donovan finally mustered the courage to ask.  
  
"I was hoping you could fill me in on the finer points," Simon replied gently. "What I know is that you were following up on a lead when you checked out of the office."  
  
"DeMarco," the agent explained.  
  
He bit down harder, and he heard the crunch of his teeth grinding together.  
  
'DeMarco?' he thought to himself. 'Where are you, you sonuvabitch?'  
  
"Richard DeMarco," the director said. "Yes. I know. I received your report, the one you filed before you left. From what I understand, he's on American soil. I don't quite understand why."  
  
Donovan forced the cold anger back into his stomach when it tried to climb into his chest. "He took a plane from Paris, Simon, and he walked into our country like he was an ordinary citizen."  
  
The director shuffled his feet where he stood. "Yes," he agreed. "I've made a few calls to the Pentagon on that matter. It doesn't make any sense. I understand that DeMarco wasn't exactly on any immediate hot lists, but we should've – at the very least – been alerted to his arrival in Washington." Easily, Simon approached the bed, and he placed one hand on the raised side guard. "What are you looking at him for? That arson job at Essential Storage?"  
  
Slowly, Donovan nodded. "Guns, Simon. The bastard tried to burn up a bunch of guns."  
  
"Yes," the man said. "I've a few calls over to the Pentagon on that, as well. It doesn't make any sense. It makes damn little sense, if you ask me, and I'm hoping that the real geek squad – those profilers – might be able to shed some light on what the man was thinking."  
  
"He knew exactly what he was doing." Donovan opened his eyes, and the world had found its calm from the storm once more.  
  
"Which was what?"  
  
"Sending a message."  
  
"To whom?"  
  
"I don't know ... not exactly ... but I think it was to anyone who knew he was here."  
  
"You mean ... to us?"  
  
"Why not?" Donovan asked. "We're the ones most likely to be interested in whatever the man is either up to or anything he does while he's in our country. Why not send us a message that he can do this and get away with it?"  
  
Simon winced. "But he wasn't getting away with it. You and Marty were going out to take him into custody."  
  
"He boobytrapped his motel room, Simon," the agent continued. "He knew someone would come looking, and that would be his second message."  
  
The director scratched his head. "I don't know, Craig. You had a terrible fall. That explosion threw you head over heels. You landed about fifteen feet from where you were standing. I'm not sure ... I'm not sure you're thinking clearly."  
  
Barely above a whisper, Donovan said, "Efnisian."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"Efnisian," he repeated.  
  
"Yes," Simon said. "That's DeMarco's codename. If I remember your report, it's something from Celtic mythology ... isn't that right?"  
  
The flood of facts washed over Donovan, and the anger gurgled deep inside him again. Biting down, he forced it into his gut – where it could fuel his desire for revenge against the man, the terrorist, the fanatic who took the life of his friend, a colleague, a decorated police detective – and he allowed himself to fill with hatred, with passion for what had to come next. But, through it all, he remembered the story of Efnisian, and he remembered what little he knew about the storage arson.  
  
"That fire at the storage unit?" the agent said. "Marty told me there was a body found."  
  
"Yes," his superior agreed. "Emile Luga. The police have several ongoing investigations into arms trafficking, and Luga was named in quite a few of them. What? Are you saying that those weapons ... those weapons were for DeMarco?"  
  
Efnisian threw the Irish lords into the burning cauldron, Donovan remembered, and he even threw a blood relative.  
  
"I keyed in a message requesting an identity search on Luga," the man explained. "What did you find?"  
  
Simon glanced down at his hurt agent, and he grimaced at the man. He knew that the news was going to mean something to him, but he wasn't quite certain what significance it would pose in the grand scheme of things ... if there were such a thing.  
  
"According to records we obtained from the State Department, it's pretty conclusive that Luga was one of DeMarco's only known relatives," Simon stated. "He was his nephew."  
  
END of Chapter 10 


	11. Chapter 11

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 11  
  
Five Days, Twenty Hours, Forty Minutes  
  
Finally, DeMarco heard the elevator doors snap as they closed.  
  
Carefully, he reached up and wiped the sweat dripping from his forehead with his free hand, insuring that he would have a clear field of vision unobstructed by salt-stung eyes, and he felt the platform lurch under his feet as the car beside him began to descend. Quickly, it dropped from his sight, and he looked across, saw Matthew's face, and nodded. Simultaneously, they stepped onto the roof of the car as it passed, ever cautious of the electrified cable. One touch, and they could forget about life much less cracking into the stronghold they expected to wait for them at the bottom of the shaft. They crouched on opposite sides, facing one another, and waited. Matthew held a single finger to his lips, signaling for them to remain completely silent. Now wasn't the time for chatter. They couldn't risk being overheard by the camera's repair technician. All they could hope for was total secrecy and total surprise.  
  
Gradually, the car descended through the darkness, and DeMarco smelled the stinking heat as it washed over him. He was surprised that these comfortable Americans didn't air-condition even their elevator shafts, given their collective proclivity for remaining at ease ... but he would do what he could to set the country off on a new course of action ... one that could only produce one possible result ...  
  
... death.  
  
Eventually, they passed the lobby, and the car crawled to a halt. In the stillness, they heard the elevator doors open, and they listened as the clip-clip-clipping of the technician's light footsteps faded into the distance. The doors closed, and they both released a heavy breath.  
  
Pointing toward the metal column that stretched downward on his side of the car, DeMarco reached across the distance with his leg. He found solid footing on a cross beam, and, squinting in the pale light, he hoisted himself over the gap and onto the maintenance girder. Feeling around the massive steel beam, he found a security ladder that he suspected would be in the subterranean levels – he knew it reasonable to suspect that the crew that built the place undoubtedly prepared for any and all eventualities. Gripping the closest rung, he swung himself out into open space – the hot air tugging at his swinging body – and he pulled himself onto the ladder.  
  
Climbing downward, he glanced into the darkness below. He couldn't make out anything substantial, but, as he continued into the depths of the shaft, he grew aware that the steel plating between the underground levels of the Heston grew thicker and thicker. The hotel's director of security – Fred Gallick – was correct: this type of construction definitely was intended to withstand any major catastrophe. Principally, the steel would protect those people evacuated into the lower levels from being crushed in the event that the building was to collapse from earthquake or explosion. Nothing would penetrate this surface, he realized, and he reached out and touched the immoveable plating with his knuckles. Hearing Matthew descending above him forced DeMarco to tighten his pace down the ladder, and, shortly, lights appeared.  
  
"There is something down here," he whispered up.  
  
The small floodlights stretched across the surface of massive aluminum plating. As far as the eye could see, DeMarco saw nothing but immense reflective steel, and he suspected not even a nuclear blast could tear into or scratch the surface. Two slabs of metal – easily twenty inches thick – were locked in place, guarding against any unauthorized entrance through the elevator shaft.  
  
Level Seven.  
  
This was as low as they would go. Gallick had told DeMarco that the floor was leased to Darlington Industries, but, despite his best efforts, he found not a single shred on the company wherever he looked. So far as he could tell, it was fictitious, a ruse to throw suspicion in another direction, but the terrorist knew better.  
  
This was where Senator Arthur Pendley was holed up. Darlington – whatever it was – was his dream child, and here it was, with Pendley locked inside the bunker doors doing whatever it was he was doing.  
  
DeMarco had found his Holy Grail.  
  
Now all that mattered was finding a way inside.  
  
[At the same time]  
  
Maintaining her confident poise, Belinda waltzed into Pendley's office carrying the fax she had just taken off the machine beside her desk. The man didn't look up from his papers – he never did – and she wondered if he realized that she was even here. She had hoped he did. She'd always found herself attracted to older men – men in positions of unique authority – and she knew very well her boss's credentials. As a matter of fact, she almost didn't accept his offer for this post when it came in because she was so concerned that she'd fail ... and failure was something that Belinda Fleming didn't tolerate. She had pushed herself to her limits in the political community, ignoring the fact that her gender was typically ignored, in order to gain the respect she had. Such persistence caught the eye of not only gentlemen suitors but also future employers, and Pendley remembered his conversation with her – when they first met – at a State Department dinner held in honor of some visiting South African dignitary. At the time, she was serving in the White House Press Office – a junior post if there ever was one – but she quickly became known around the 'Yard,' as they called the White House, as a real go-getter. She appreciated the reputation, and she used it to maximum advantage. At the dinner, she walked up to Senator Pendley, asked him for a dance, and, while they were traipsing across the exquisitely crafted marble floor, she told him everything she thought of his work for the Senate. While she had intended for it to be little more than casually flirting with a man twice her age, she couldn't help but realize that it could lead to so much more. It did, eventually ... but now she had spent far too long locked away in this basement, tending to Pendley's every clerical need ... and she so desperately missed the sunlight. When he offered her the position, he told her that Project Kupher was a secret military project – he assured her it had the highest 'top secret' classification possible – and that serving Kupher would require relocation to the military base. Her shock and surprise at discovering she would be working on the lowest floor of one of Washington's premiere hotels still hadn't waned, all those months ago. Now, she wanted to leave, to go outside and sit on the grass, kick off her shoes, and rub her feet in the dirt ... but it wouldn't happen ... not until Pendley had secured her replacement.  
  
"Sir?" she began, holding out the fax. "Your communiqué from Vulture."  
  
'Vulture,' she thought. 'God, I hate these codenames.'  
  
"Thank you," he replied pleasantly, placing the folder he was perusing on his desk and taking the page from her.  
  
"Not a problem, sir."  
  
Waiting, she studied his expression as he read. He didn't show any emotion.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"What is it today, Belinda?"  
  
"I'm bored."  
  
"Aren't we all?"  
  
"I was hoping ... well ... I know I've asked this before. I haven't forgotten the requirements that national security places on all of us down here ... but I was wondering how much longer I'd be assigned to this post."  
  
He glanced up at her. "Why, Belinda, I think I've been clear on that topic. I don't have any specifics on how long the military will be keeping you down here in the bowels of the Earth, but I do believe – actually, I have it on good authority – that they're considering a rotation to personnel very soon."  
  
She swallowed nervously. "I was really hoping that I could get a day topside ... if that isn't too much to ask." She held up her hands. "I know that I've asked before, but I've stayed at my post for a very long time, and it isn't as if I'm asking for re-assignment because I would never do that to you, sir. It's only ... I wouldn't mind one day ... one hour ... to stretch my legs up there."  
  
He sighed. "I'll make the request again."  
  
She smiled. "Thank you, sir. I really appreciate your understanding."  
  
"You're very welcome, Belinda."  
  
Changing the topic, hoping to sound less formal, she tried, "Any important news from Vulture?"  
  
"I'm afraid so," he answered. Rising, he crumpled the page of paper into a ball and tossed it into the wastebasket beside his fine desk. "Apparently, there is a new strategy to the War on Terror. Please keep this hush-hush, as I'm quite certain it's all classified, but it looks like the United States has a new weapons program ready for deployment that will change the battle plan dramatically." He straightened his suit coat, and then he reached up and tightened the tie around his neck. "I'm needed in my Senate chambers for a brief meeting on the move of Project Kupher from this 'hole' to somewhere far more hospitable to a woman of your charms." He grinned at her. "See? It's as I've told you all along. The President hasn't forgotten any of us. Much to the contrary, I would imagine we've been foremost on his mind as of late. At his behest, I would imagine that we'll be moving to our operational headquarters very soon. We're simply waiting for the current contractors to ... vacate the premises."  
  
"That's good news," she beamed.  
  
"It certainly is," he agreed, reaching for his briefcase and taking it in tow.  
  
"I know how much this project has meant to your career."  
  
"And to yours, my dear."  
  
'Damn,' she thought. 'Why won't he notice me?'  
  
"We'll all be moving up in the world," he explained, "and I don't mean just the elevator, Belinda."  
  
She laughed, trying hard to sound interested – is that possible with a laugh? She followed him into the hallway toward the waiting elevator doors.  
  
"Belinda," he tried, "I know this assignment hasn't been easy for you."  
  
Shrugging, she made light of the work. "It's nothing, sir."  
  
"No, no," he insisted as they moved together down the hall. "You're a young woman – a very beautiful young woman – and I can only imagine what sacrifices you've made to serve me ... to serve the project ... here in this metal fortress, of all places."  
  
"Really, sir. It's been a pleasure to be involved in something with the prospect of so much reward."  
  
"Yes," he agreed. "It is." With a hint of excitement in his voice, he said, "I would suspect that we're all due for some reward very soon."  
  
From his breast pocket, he pulled a swipecard, and he ran it across the jeweled sensor. With a ping, the doors parted, and he stepped onboard.  
  
"As I've told you all along, my dear," he offered as the panels started to close, "it's only a matter of time."  
  
[At the same time]  
  
DeMarco heard the hissing of hydraulics coming to life, and he said, "Get clear, get clear!"  
  
Together, the two men jogged several steps away from the massive plate doors, which moved. Ever so slowly, they whined in protest as they crawled in separate directions – parting like Moses did the Red Sea – clearing the opening they once protected. The screech echoed throughout the shaft, the noise bouncing back at them from hundreds of directions. DeMarco listened to the automated clicking of unlocking pressure seals, and, before their eyes, a private elevator car rose from the hole. Mechanically, the box rose up and up and up, riding on its sliver of cable, disappearing into the blackness over their heads, and the doors left far below locked into place – open.  
  
"Well, my friend," Matthew whispered, "it looks like we're in business."  
  
END of Chapter 11


	12. Chapter 12

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 12  
  
Five Days, Twenty Hours, Twenty-Three Minutes  
  
Panting, Trace Hightower threw himself onto the ground, giving himself a moment's rest. His chest fought under his clothing, rising and falling as rapidly as he could suck the air into his lungs. He had been running as fast as he could – at what certainly must have been a breakneck speed – across the empty and unforgiving Alaskan frontier – pumping his legs like pistons as hard as they would go through the ice and the snow – but he felt as if he were going nowhere, as if he were plodding in place for all the good it did. Lying on his back, he realized how good the cold felt, and he stared up into the permanently fixed expression of indifference on the face of Secret Service Agent Nolan Murphy.  
  
"How long have we been running?" Hightower managed to ask between his gasps for air.  
  
"Don't know, sir."  
  
"Can't you guess?"  
  
"I never was one much for guessing."  
  
Damn the man! He didn't even appear winded.  
  
"Well, would you do me a favor and give me some idle banter while I lay here trying to stay alive?"  
  
Murphy grimaced, his fingers locked on his right thigh. Briskly, he massaged a cramp that had taken hold of his leg, and he guessed, "About two hours. Maybe more."  
  
The man was a perfectionist, and Hightower was surprised that his answer was far short of perfection.  
  
"You don't honestly know?"  
  
"No, sir, I do not know." Murphy shook his head, wincing as he found his face flooded with a shock of cold wind. "Check your watch, Mr. Hightower. You'll see that it's stopped ... like mine."  
  
Pulling up his arm, the man yanked back the arm of his coat, and he saw that the second hand wasn't moving.  
  
"How is that possible?" he tried.  
  
Murphy turned his head to glance back in the direction they had come. About thirty minutes back, he had given up hope that any other members of their party had survived. About fifteen minutes back, he had reached the same conclusion that his 'package' – Hightower – just uttered: they weren't going to make it back to civilization.  
  
"My best guess – though I've already said I hate making them – is that we were exposed to some kind of electromagnetic pulse," the agent explained matter-of-factly.  
  
"An EMP?" Hightower wondered aloud. "Isn't that ... Murphy, aren't EMPs associated to nuclear tests?"  
  
"Some of them," the man agreed, "but not all."  
  
Suddenly fearing more for his life than he had moments ago, the younger man asked, "Do you think we've been exposed?"  
  
Pointing his expression at the President's son-in-law, Murphy replied, "That would be another guess, sir, and, no insult intended, I've met my quota for guesses on this trip."  
  
The tone of the man's voice unnerved Hightower. Murphy was top notch. He was one of the best agents in the Secret Service, and Hightower knew it. He had served four Presidents, and the man had an unblemished service record. He came into the new Administration with a reserved calm, knowing that this would be his last tour of duty. After so many years, so many missions, and so many dangers, he finally decided to retire at the ripe young age of fifty-five. Still, with as sturdy as the man was built, Hightower would guess the man was still in his prime and had plenty of surprises in stowed reserve. Coming from a background where he was raised by an aunt who had died while he was training with the military, Murphy didn't have any remaining family, and, perhaps as an emotional defense mechanism for his own sanity, he had insisted on assignments protected the President's family. It was his way of having brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, and cousins of his own ... without any direct lineage. This gave him added incentive to take extra special care on these missions of derringdo that Hightower refused to part with once his father-in-law found himself elected to the nation's highest calling. While the other agents had gladly changed out in the rotation, Murphy stayed with him ... from the failed bid to climb Mount 'what the hell was I thinking' Everest all the way to his excursion into an active volcano.  
  
Although the agent would never say, Hightower fancied imagining that – in other circumstances – that they were friends, kindred spirits that shared the need for an adrenaline rush. Little did he know that he was far for the truth, for Murphy only cared about having someone to care for. His needs were simple. The Secret Service paid him well enough. The Service also provided him with a surrogate family, but he refused to get close to any of them. He wanted to. After all, that was a human need to someone who had spent so much of his life in loneliness. A decade or so back, Murphy had convinced himself innocently that he didn't need family ... but it didn't last for long for he had reached the same revelation about a decade before that one ... and a decade before that one ...  
  
His was the highest possible calling: to take a bullet for someone you were barely allowed to get to know.  
  
Hightower was convinced they were friends. He couldn't have been more wrong. They were men forced together out of political circumstance. Anything more? That was a blind man's fantasy.  
  
"We should keep moving, sir," Murphy stated flatly.  
  
Hightower shook his head, the blood pounding a heartbeat in his skull. "In a minute, Murphy. Please just give me another minute ..."  
  
"Sir, I think it's best..."  
  
"You don't think," Hightower countered. "You respond to orders. You evaluate the needs of the situation, and then you enact a gameplan that will satisfy the endgame with the least possible casualty." The young man blinked the cold tears from the corner of his eyes. "I'm not about to be a casualty run to death. I said we'll go ... in a minute."  
  
Uncomfortable, the agent turned and glared at the younger man.  
  
"Sir, if you'll pardon my speaking freely, then I'll give you the privilege of my being blunt."  
  
"I'm listening, Murphy."  
  
The agent pointed in the direction they had come. "In case you missed it, someone tried to wipe you off the face of the planet. Those men weren't aiming at me. They were aiming at you because of your personal importance to the President. And, in case you've forgotten, they struck using a weapon of unimaginable power. I don't know if it was a particle beam weapon. I don't know if it was some type of stealth neutron blast. Sir, I frankly don't have the slightest idea of what it was, but I do know this: they've used it once, they missed, and you're not dead." He paused a moment to catch his breath, his nose turning a bright red from the Alaskan chill. He leaned down to bring his face closer to Hightower's. "Whatever the possibility, there is no doubt in my mind that these men used satellites – probably our own – to target you, to hone in on your exact position."  
  
"Our own satellites?" the younger man perked up. "Murphy, are you saying that this attack was directed by men within our own government?"  
  
"Given what we know, it certainly stands to reason." Murphy stood up again, scanning the desolate terrain for any signs of life. "Who else but those in the White House knew about this little exercise of yours? You have to realize that if these men have satellite tracking capability, then they most likely possess the ability to re-task the orbits of other satellites – companion satellites – in order see whether or not the first strike was successful."  
  
Murphy was right. Hightower glanced up at the sky, realizing suddenly that they – the killers – could be watching him at this very moment. Watching him. Studying him. Targetting him.  
  
"We've been running for at least two hours across undisturbed terrain ... undisturbed expect for our footprints, sir, and those tracks will lead them directly to us. Now that means that you get up off your ass and you need to move. Now." He pointed in the direction they were heading. "From this point forward, sir, we head in that direction – the direction of Zulu Base – and I think it best that you follow my orders to the letter. That may be the only way that I can possibly ensure your safety. Is that clear?"  
  
Hightower couldn't argue with the logic. Despite what Murphy thought, the young man looking up to the agent, considered him a friend. Sitting up, he forced himself to slow down his breaths, and he rose to his feet. "I'm sorry, Murphy," he confessed. "I ... I guess I wasn't thinking."  
  
Calmly, the agent nodded. "There's no need to apologize, sir."  
  
"Are you kidding?" the young man tried. "I'm being a selfish ass."  
  
Smirking, Murphy chided him with, "I'm not much for arguing either, sir."  
  
"You're out here doing your job trying to save me, and I'm asking for a breather."  
  
"With all due respect, Mr. Hightower," Murphy spat, growing irritated, "this has nothing to do with my doing my job. This has everything to do with our survival. Not mine. Not yours. But ours." The older man locked eyes on his companion. "Yes, it is my job to keep you alive, but the only way I can do that is to keep myself alive. And, sir?" The agent held a look of sincerity about him. "I know you've taken all sorts of hell from the American media. They've christened you a rebel for wanting to spend these past few years on these little pet project adventures of yours. Who am I to call it differently, but I've seen you in action. I know you understand the necessity for safety, despite wanting to experience what you personally feel is living life to the fullest. But I give you my word that this isn't one of your thrill seeker outings. This is life-or-death. There is no thrill. There is no game. There is no rush ... nothing except for the rushing of our feet."  
  
With that, Hightower turned, forcing his body to move. He started off at a job, at first, allowing his legs to get back into a rhythm, until he poured his endurance into it. He tore through the snow more easily now that he had been properly motivated. He convinced himself that this was no different than any of his other adventures. He ignored the thought of any lethal jeopardy, and he ran. He refused to accept the frosty kiss of the wind, and he ran faster. He thought of his beautiful wife – sitting wherever she was with her family, quite possibly wondering about his fate – and he moved onward, pumping his legs a bit harder at the idea of losing Amy. He wouldn't lose Amy. He'd have to be hard – a machine – and he'd have to break this frontier, a place he had come to for the purposes of sport but now wanted nothing more of it except to see it long left behind.  
  
END of Chapter 12 


	13. Chapter 13

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 13  
  
Five Days, Twenty Hours, Fifteen Minutes  
  
The curiosity driving her insane, Belinda slipped back into Pendley's office – she long ago committed his key pad access code to memory. She plunked the keys in the proper sequence – 3,6,7,9,1 – and, as his door cracked, she slipped inside and walked over to his desk. Stopping, she leaned down and reached into the trash can, retrieving the crushed memo that Vulture – whoever he was – had faxed over with the PRIORITY notice blazing across the top. As a practice, Belinda never read the faxes. Pendley would be infuriated if he discovered that she had, but something told her this one was different. To her recollection, the senator never rushed off topside after receiving a fax from Vulture. Also, he very rarely immediately discarded the faxes. Was it carelessness ... or did his quick departure necessity a change to his normal obsessive-compulsive behaviors about protecting the secrecy of such documents? She didn't know ... but she was about to find out.  
  
Slipping the paper under her blouse, she exited his office and headed for her own.  
  
[At the same time]  
  
DeMarco crouched, poised on the edge of the open shaft that the elevator car had not long ago rose from the secret installation. He wondered what it was – the whisper in the back of his brain – that kept him from dropping inside, forcing the elevator doors open, and breaking into the facility. What would he find? What purpose could this place – a veritable locked box – possibly serve? He knew that, the longer he waited, the more the opportunity slipped through his fingers; and the more the opportunity slipped through his finger, the more agitated Matthew grew.  
  
"Richard," the man tried, "we have the advantage."  
  
"Pendley could be back any minute."  
  
"I doubt that very much."  
  
"We cannot be certain."  
  
"Whatever is down there – whatever Pendley has hidden away from you for all of this time – that is your destiny."  
  
"Is it," DeMarco offered, "or is it mere coincidence?"  
  
Flatly, Matthew argued, "You told me yourself, a long time ago, that you don't believe in coincidence. Don't you remember?"  
  
The terrorist stared down into the blackness, remembering what he had told Matthew years ago. "Yes," he admitted. "I do recall having that conversation, Matthew."  
  
"I don't either believe in it, either. Do you understand what this means? It means that you and I were meant to find this place. And, if we were meant to find it, then I believe we were meant to explore it." He placed a hand on DeMarco's shoulder. "This opportunity happened for a reason, and, if we don't seize the opportunity while it's available to us, we may never have a second chance."  
  
The terrorist stared down into the shaft. It bottomed with thick rubber padding, a brace for the elevator car's underside. A series of blinking cables lined the walls – perhaps some type of auxiliary power supply in the event of primary power loss – but it could also be a disguised security system ... something extraordinary high tech with laser beam emitters. It would make perfect sense that, while the plates were locked into an open position, a secondary system came online automatically, and DeMarco guessed that one was there, trying desperately to appear innocent ... but the innocent always caught his eye.  
  
Reaching out, he scraped his hand across the aluminum surface, gathering a handful of dust. He picked up what he could and stood. Leaning over the opening, he blew the particles into the air, and they drifted with an almost magical grace downward, past his feet, into the shaft, and were engulfed by the darkness. Suddenly, they light up as they crossed through the beams, and DeMarco knew he had been right to be skeptical all along.  
  
"Damn," he muttered. "The old man? He thought of everything."  
  
His head craned over the opening, Matthew asked, "What do we do now?"  
  
DeMarco nodded. Who was it that said there wasn't a prison that could be broken out of that couldn't – more easily – be broken into? Was it a philosopher, or was it a common thug with a penchant, an admiration, an inner desire to find himself behind bars?  
  
"Gather more dust," he said. "There will be a weakness. We must find it."  
  
[At the same time]  
  
Back at her desk, Belinda pulled out the piece of crumpled paper, and she set it on the blotter. Glancing around, she checked to ensure that no one was listening. Finally assured that she was entirely alone, she poked at the ball with a single finger, resting her chin on one hand.  
  
'What could it be?' she wondered.  
  
Arthur had always kept her in the dark. She knew about the Crypt, but she hadn't the slightest idea what they were doing in there. Oh, she had heard him speaking on the telephone – wasn't it to the Pentagon? – but she only paid as much attention as she felt necessary. In due time, she would know. She guessed it was a top-secret defense weapon of some sort. Arthur had told her that their project – she loved it when he called in that – was part of the Black Budget. She knew that, as a result, it couldn't be discussed with the American public. It was in the interest of national security.  
  
She poked at the ball some more, and, finally succumbing to her temptation, she pried the piece of paper open ...  
  
... and she couldn't believe her eyes.  
  
[At the same time]  
  
There it was.  
  
In the corner, DeMarco saw no dust illuminated by the crisscross of laser beams.  
  
It was a small weakness, but, nonetheless, it was there. The hole in the defense pattern would allow for a single person – perhaps one at a time – to slip down into the shaft unnoticed ... but how would one get the doors open? Thin crimson beams stretched across the two partitions, and he was quite certain that, once down there, he wouldn't have the strength – or the room – to pry them apart. If he could find the automatic release mechanism – generally, it was a safety catch located near one of the doors – then he could trigger it, the doors would slide apart, and he could slip inside ... but if the safety bar were on the far door – the one opposite the unprotected corner – he would never be able to reach it.  
  
Eventually, he rose. "No," he assured his partner. "There is no way past this security system."  
  
"You have to try."  
  
"It is too dangerous."  
  
With a firm hand on the man's shoulder, Matthew cautioned, "There is nothing too dangerous for us."  
  
DeMarco sighed. "My friend, we have no idea of what is inside this ... this base. Triggering the doors may be possible, but what then? There may be a guard post on the other side, and, then, whichever of us is down there would be trapped. That is a risk I cannot allow."  
  
Stubbornly, Matthew offered, "I'll take the risk."  
  
The terrorist shook his head. "I cannot allow you to do that ... not for me ... not for yourself."  
  
The look in the man's eyes told DeMarco that this conversation was far from over.  
  
END of Chapter 13 


	14. Chapter 14

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 14  
  
Five Days, Twenty Hours, Eight Minutes  
  
The bliss of sleep faded away as Indiri awoke in her bed. She stirred quietly, opening her eyes to the dim light filtered through the hotel room drapes, and realization dawned on her as to where she was and what she had been doing.  
  
She smiled happily to herself.  
  
Lying perfectly still, her head pressed to the pillow, she lay there and allowed her mind to wander. She could still feel the sensation of Richard DeMarco on top of her. She still felt the welcome warmth of his naked thighs pressing into hers. She felt the rugged motion of his hands, his lips, and his teeth fondling her breasts. She felt the tingling of her neck – he had spent a healthy amount of energy kissing and suckling there – and she was certain that her hair – his long fingers wrapped in her delicious sheen – was unkempt. It had a long time – far too long – that she had felt so good about herself, about setting aside the hesitation she almost always felt at bedding a near-total stranger. Something about the evening – something about Richard – had felt so right. He spoke to her with such kindness, such courtesy. He looked at her with such tenderness. He had listened to her hapless tales of fashion, of models, of photographers, and he had seemed honestly interested in each and every yarn. Then, he made love to her with no reservation, with tremendous intensity, with an almost animal ferocity – at times – that she lost her breath in his arms, in his clutches, under the welcome wait of a true ... soulmate?  
  
'Stop it,' she told herself. 'You're behaving like you're sixteen. You've had a quickie in the back of your father's sedan, and you're ready to rush to the altar, girlfriend.'  
  
Rolling over easily, she discovered that she was alone in the bed.  
  
Softly, she cried out, "Richard?"  
  
There came no reply.  
  
She sat up in the bed, craning her neck in the direction of the bathroom. She didn't see any slivers of light shining out from under the door, so, she realized she was completely alone in the room.  
  
'That sonuvabitch,' she thought.  
  
No. It couldn't be that way. He wouldn't have simply rushed off as soon as she had fallen asleep. It had only been a few hours, she realized as she glanced at the bedside clock, and she refused to accept that Richard DeMarco – the dark, handsome, gentlemanly Richard DeMarco – would be so callous as to have his fun and then run.  
  
'That sonuvabitch.'  
  
No.  
  
She refused to believe it.  
  
The chime of her cell phone broke her from the mental debate. Rising from the bed, taking the silk sheet with her, she fumbled through the darkness across her high heels and clothing until she found her purse. Yanking it open, she dug inside, found the phone, and pressed the activator button.  
  
"Hello?" she said.  
  
"Boss?"  
  
She recognized the voice immediately. "Iceland? Is that you?"  
  
"Oh, boss, thank goodness you finally answered your telephone! I've been trying to call you for an hour!"  
  
Indiri sat on the floor, draping the sheet completely around her. "Well, I had fallen asleep, Iceland."  
  
"Asleep?" she heard. "What in the world would you be doing asleep ... at this hour? The parties are just beginning!"  
  
Clearing her throat, Indiri tried harmlessly, "Iceland, it's what happens to a woman after she's been totally ... oh, never mind. What's so urgent that you've been trying to call me for this time of night? You should have gone home for the evening. You're not still at the office, are you?"  
  
"No, ma'am," Iceland replied, but her voice trailed off into silence ... however, Indiri could hear some very distinct music in the background.  
  
"Are you calling me from a club?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am."  
  
Confused, Indiri sighed and began rustling through the clothing for her underwear. She found them, and, still crouching on the floor, she somehow managed to stick her leg through one of the holes. "Iceland, why are you calling me from some club?"  
  
"Well ..."  
  
"Are you in some kind of trouble?"  
  
Suddenly, the music in the background faded, and Indiri heard the sound of applause.  
  
"No, ma'am," the woman replied. "I'm not in any kind of trouble. It isn't me ... it's ..."  
  
The red sting of embarrassment burned into Indiri's face.  
  
"It's Ulrika," she finally realized. "Isn't it?"  
  
"Yes, ma'am."  
  
"What did she do?" Miraculously, Indiri was managed to get both legs through the proper holes, and, letting go of the sheet, she dropped onto the floor, on her back, and slid them up to her waist. "Don't hold back, Iceland. If Ulrika is up to no good, this wouldn't be the first time."  
  
The applause on the phone faded, giving way to the hollering and catcalls of ...  
  
... men.  
  
With as much authority as she could muster, Indiri demanded, "Tell me where you are ... right now."  
  
"We're at the Sanction Club."  
  
Oh, no.  
  
Indiri took a second to press her free hand to her forehead. Was it a fever, or was she burning hot with anger now?  
  
"The gentleman's club?" she asked, trying to maintain her decorum.  
  
"You have to understand what Ulrika has been going through these last few weeks," Iceland offered. "You were in Europe!"  
  
"I was working, Iceland."  
  
"I know, but ... she's such a free spirit, ma'am ... you know what I'm talking about. There was this congressman who came by ... to tell you the truth, I don't remember which one it was ... but he put her in touch with the manager of the Sanction ... and she's here! I told her not to, but when she called me to come down here and watch her first performance, she seemed so pleased with herself that I thought I could talk some sense into her! Please! Please, don't be angry with me! I honestly did the best I could!"  
  
Now struggling to get all of her clothes on, Indiri forced herself to remain calm. "Has she danced yet?"  
  
"No ... but she's set to go on any minute!"  
  
Skirt, on. Blouse, on. Bra ... ah, forget it. Heels, on.  
  
"No, no, no," Indiri insisted. "You do whatever you have to do to keep her off that stage, Iceland!"  
  
"Ma'am, it isn't as if the Sanction is a dirty place," the secretary tried. "I mean ... I've never been in here before, but it's actually quite nice. Very tasteful."  
  
"That may be," the woman conceded, "but dancing in a club like the Sanction will cause Ulrika to lose any chance at a credible modeling career, and I've invested too much of myself in her – too much of our assets – in allowing her to throw herself away just because some congressman with a willing smile popped by the office for a look-see."  
  
"I understand."  
  
"You keep her off that stage," Indiri ordered. "Do whatever it is you have to do, Iceland. You can use my name. You can threaten to call the police. Hell, you can get up there and take her spot on the stage, for all I care, but – whatever you do – you do not allow Ulrika to shake her goods for the benefit of paying customers ... do you understand me? I'm on my way."  
  
[At the same time]  
  
Lisa kept her temper under control.  
  
She admitted to herself that she was attracted to Richard DeMarco. What woman wouldn't be? He was so very, very handsome, with skin so smooth, dark, and polished that the mere thought of wrapping her naked self around the tale, succulent stranger drove shivers through her body. She trusted – given their conversations – that he felt likewise. This woman – this Indiri Farris – she was a necessary evil, a loose end that had to be tied up. They had met on his place ride to the United States, and Richard – ever the charmer – had taken to her quickly. A light dinner and a healthy romp in bed later, Lisa herself would finish her rival for affections off ... with a twenty-two caliber bullet fired into the back of her head, execution style. The size of the bullet would force the skull to trap the slug inside, causing it to ricochet of the bone, tearing into and through the brain, cutting short Ms. Farris's hold on life and sending her painfully into the afterlife.  
  
Then, Lisa would have Richard all to herself.  
  
Still, there was Matthew to worry about. Her brother had made it expressly clear – when he brought her into this business – that she would inevitably find herself attracted to these men. They were powerful, he had warned her, and women – some women – were naturally charmed by such power. At the time, she had dismissed it as a schoolgirl notion. This was, simply, business in its most pure, simple, and violent form. However, with each passing day, she more clearly understood Matthew's fears for her admirations. These weren't ordinary men. These were cunning men. They were intelligent. They had missions and hopes and dreams, and they were completely willing to sacrifice anything necessary to see those goals achieved. Each 'dealer' or 'buyer' had become more attractive to her in the past year, and Matthew warned her that her reaction was only natural. However, she hadn't expected Richard DeMarco ... and now she was willing to put a bullet in the back of another woman's head in order to stop this man from disappearing from her life.  
  
It didn't make any sense, she knew, but she had to do it.  
  
Glancing up, she saw that the elevator reached the seventh floor. The car pinged, and the doors parted.  
  
To her surprise, Indiri Farris stepped onto the car. "Going down?" she asked, smiling politely.  
  
Lisa took a second to respond. "Yes," she agreed. "Yes, I am."  
  
Again, the woman grinned at the potential killer. She pressed the 'L' button for the lobby, and she turned and faced the closing doors.  
  
"Your skirt," Lisa said.  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Your skirt," she whispered.  
  
Reaching out, Lisa grasped the lip of the zipper and pulled it up. The teeth locked into place, setting the garment firmly onto Indiri's waist.  
  
"You weren't quite all the way up there," she said.  
  
Embarrassed, Indiri sighed, drawing one hand over her eyes. "Thank you very much."  
  
"Don't mention it."  
  
The car reached the lobby, and the doors opened.  
  
"Have a nice evening," Indiri offered.  
  
"You, too."  
  
They stepped out of the car, and the agent quickly marched across the glossy marble floor and through the twirling doors.  
  
Stepping up to the glass window, Lisa brought a finger up to her ear and activated her communications unit. Matthew wasn't going to like this development, she realized. He wasn't going to like it a single bit.  
  
[At the same time]  
  
They were halfway back up the maintenance ladder when both men stopped as their comm units signaled. Matthew reached up and toggled his switch.  
  
"What do you have?"  
  
"Target has left the building," Lisa said over the line.  
  
Matthew was in the lead climbing up the ladder. He glanced down at his friend, and DeMarco frowned.  
  
Touching his ear, DeMarco said plainly, "Lisa, you must follow and intercept. Kill her ... or you risk my incarceration."  
  
"Understood," she said, and then the line went dead.  
  
END of Chapter 14 


	15. Chapter 15

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 15  
  
Five Days, Nineteen Hours, Fifty-Seven Minutes  
  
This day had started out poorly, and it was getting worse by the minute for Bradley Talmadge. Not only had he finally brought all of the personnel fires under control ... not only had be finally brought together a team with the skills and dedication to serve this mission with the kind of precision and delicacy that it required ... not only had to finally convinced his bosses in the NSA that bringing Frank Parker to Washington, D.C., was the best possible course of action despite appearing to be the worst blunder mankind could commit in the short history of its civilization ... but now they were about to be blown out of the sky.  
  
Running as fast as he could, he burst into the communications center aboard the Boeing. From across the room, he heard the Comm Officer practically shouting into the headset, but he knew any pilots encountering a plane bound for the nation's Capitol at a time when it seemed America was under attack would be trigger-happy, to say the least. Given the Red Level Alert that existed on the ground and given the fact that all commercial aircraft had been grounded until further notice, these pilots would – rightly so – be in fighter mode.  
  
"I repeat!" the young man barked. "This is BackStep One! Do not engage! I repeat! Our aircraft is unarmed, and do not engage!"  
  
Quickly, Talmadge pulled another crewmember out of the chair next to the communications post, and he dropped himself into it hard. He knew that they didn't have a lot of time left, not with defensive aircraft already in the airspace this far out from Washington ... but it couldn't matter. He wouldn't allow for them to be stopped now. He couldn't allow it, and he was hoping that he could convince those pilots otherwise.  
  
Glancing at the nearby radar screen, he said, "Gentlemen, isn't it a little late in the evening for us to be entertaining guests? Will someone please inform me as to the status of our little encounter?"  
  
The man Talmadge had almost thrown to the floor quickly took a spot at the director's side, leaning close with his finger poised near the digital display. "Director, these two F-16s ... they came out of nowhere. They've taken defensive positions, one off starboard and one off our port side. They have positive tone on us, sir. Their weapons are locked.  
  
"What do they want?"  
  
"They've ordered us to turn around."  
  
"Turn around?" the director asked incredulous.  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Did you tell them who we are?"  
  
"Yes, sir, I did," he answered. "It didn't seem to phase them at all. They're maintaining that Washington has been locked down and that no aircraft will be allowed into the airspace." Gesturing at the radar images, the young man pleased, "Perhaps you should hear what they have to say."  
  
Waving the young man into the nearest chair, Talmadge pulled on a headset, adjusting the mouthpiece near his jaw. "This is Bradley Talmadge, director of the BackStep Program on board BackStep One," he announced, his eyes now locked on thse radar blips of the attack craft. "May I ask to whom am I speaking?"  
  
There was a brief crackle of static before he heard, "Director Talmadge, this is Lieutenant Colonel Davis Shackleton, sir. I've been ordered to intercept BackStep One and escort your aircraft back to Area 51."  
  
Talmadge couldn't believe what he was hearing.  
  
If what he understood were true, then Washington was in utter chaos. Procedures were in place that would've placed the President in hiding for the duration of a Red Level Alert, and, at this point, there would be absolutely no logical reason why he would be ordered to return to NeverNeverLand unless ...  
  
Oh, no.  
  
Oh, heavens, no.  
  
"On whose authority are you carrying out your orders, colonel?" the director asked.  
  
"By authority of the President of the United States, sir," came the reply.  
  
"Is that so?"  
  
"Yes, sir. The President has ordered me to escort you and your party back to your operational headquarters so that you may engage a BackStep."  
  
It was exactly what Talmadge had feared.  
  
An alternate Frank Parker had arrived in their timeline, and he was being called to Washington in an attempt to divert a possible tragedy to the President's peace plan in the Middle East. However, as events were unfolding much differently than they had in Frank's timeline, the President's son-in-law was killed – possibly the result of a terrorist attack – on some adventure excursion in Alaska. There wasn't any doubt, once the news had broken, that the game plan would be subject to change: Channing Michelson would be ordered to BackStep seven days in order to save Trace Hightower.  
  
A BackStep within a Backstep?  
  
Talmadge knew it was the ultimate set-up for temporal failure, and, if this world were going to survive, he couldn't allow that to happen.  
  
"Colonel, did the President say what purpose he wanted us to serve in this mission?"  
  
"I do not know, sir," Shackleton replied. "The order came to me by way of the President's Chief of Staff, Ethan Stoddard."  
  
Talmadge gripped the mouthpiece of his headset. "Son, you have to get Stoddard on the horn. There's no way I'm going to risk any more lives by performing any more time travel ... not until we've discussed other contingencies with the President himself."  
  
"I can't do that, sir."  
  
"Colonel, I'm giving you an order."  
  
"Sir, I already have my orders."  
  
Standing, Talmadge knew he had only one alternative. "And I'm giving you an NSA command override to Ethan Stoddard's directive."  
  
"Sir, I think it best ..."  
  
"The password is 'counterclockwise,'" the director interrupted, not allowing himself to be swayed from what he concluded was the proper course of action. "I understand that you'll need time to verify it. I'll stay on the line until you can establish its authenticity."  
  
"Sir, if you would, please order your pilot turn that aircraft around ..."  
  
"I'll do no such thing, colonel."  
  
"Sir, you're risking both our careers here ..."  
  
"Son," Talmadge cut the man off, turning away from the radar screen and closing his eyes, trying to imagine the face of the person he was talking to, knowing that it would help him make as convincing an argument as possible, "neither you nor I have the time to bandy threats about, so I'm going to show you the courtesy of speaking plainly. I need you to listen carefully to what I'm about to say. The fate of our world very well may depend on what you decide. Do you understand?"  
  
"That's affirmative, director."  
  
Pleased, Talmadge gave himself a moment's pause to appreciate the minor victory. Then, he nodded to himself. "Colonel, you undoubtedly are not privy to all information regarding why the President may or may not have set you out on this mission. I am. I can tell you that – to the best of our knowledge – the President's son-in-law was killed four hours ago on one of his thrill-seeking adventures ... this one in northern Alaska. I don't know whether or not you have children, colonel, but, if you do, I want you to imagine what that would feel like ... to learn that you've lost your child ... to learn that it was quite possibly at the hands of terrorists ... but what would you do if you had the opportunity to turn back the clock and undo the damage that had been done to you and your family?"  
  
Talmadge couldn't tell whether or not he was making as persuasive an argument as he needed at a time like this. Still, all he could do was continue. "That power could force you to make rash judgments ... judgments that might not serve the best interests of humanity but would seem like the perfect choice given very few options to alleviate your pain. I believe that may be what you and I have found ourselves in the middle of, colonel. If your orders came directly from the President of the United States, I think you can understand why he might make such a request, why he might ask such a sacrifice. But, colonel, I give you my word – one patriot to another – that right now I have people aboard this aircraft who have to get to Washington. I'm telling you, without question, that a BackStep at this time would only worsen this situation. I've been in charge of this program long enough to know that a BackStep now wouldn't only lead us to talking about the sacrifice of sons and daughters." Grimly, he concluded, "Colonel, we'd be talking about the end to civilization as we know it."  
  
The pilot hadn't replied, and Talmadge was concerned that the younger man was preparing for attack procedures. He knew they wouldn't fire on the Boeing, but that didn't mean the F-16s couldn't pose other dangers.  
  
"Colonel," he tried further, "I'm again giving you my NSA command override. You know what your duty is, and you know that you must authenticate. The password is counterclockwise. Do whatever it is you need to do ..."  
  
"That won't be necessary, sir," Shackleton finally spoke to him. "I've already relayed your override to the ground, and they've given us the greenlight to escort BackStep One into Washington."  
  
Reaching up, Talmadge wiped a bead of sweat that had formed from his eyebrow.  
  
"Calmer minds have prevailed, sir," the pilot offered.  
  
'That they have,' the director thought, 'and thank God they did.'  
  
END of Chapter 15 


	16. Chapter 16

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 16  
  
Five Days, Nineteen Hours, Forty Minutes  
  
Restless, Donovan opened his eyes, giving up the fight to fall asleep, and clicked on the television. He flipped past the hospital channels – he had no interest in knowing about their nationally-recognized physical therapy program, not at a time like this – and he went immediately to CVN, his news channel of choice. He recognized Graves Santellano – long- time CVN commentator – and he had seen enough of the man to know his most serious expressions from his less convincing news face. Something of importance was going on in the world, and Donovan raised the volume so that he could hear more about it.  
  
"... again, let me state for our viewers just tuning in, that we have no confirmation of a terrorist attack either in progress or having occurred within the last hours," Santellano explained, "but our source within the Department of Homeland Security has confirmed that the Red Level Alert will remain in effect until further notice."  
  
What?  
  
When did this happen?  
  
"At present," the commentator continued, "what we do know is the following. First, all commercial air traffic has been grounded. Those flights have been rerouted to land at the nearest possible destination that can facilitate all of those planes. As you can guess, United States air travel is tremendous this time of year, and great effort is being placed into the management of these flights, and our sources within all of the major airlines has confirmed that they are working in coordination with Homeland Security to make sure all of the passengers are afforded the least possible inconvenience due to these circumstances.  
  
"Second, all international flights – those bound for the United States from any and all foreign country – have been cancelled. Those planes in flight are being met by an escort of F-16s, and they are either being turned back or redirected to alternative landing destinations. As we have come to learn, most of the flights are being rerouted to Canada. Those short on fuel supply are being escorted by the F-16s to the nearest military – not commercial here, folks – to the nearest military base for landing and debriefing.  
  
"Third," Santellano pressed onward, "all interstate rail and coach bus travel has been halted until tomorrow morning. As we have been led to understand, the delay will provide officials within Homeland Security to make some preliminary determinations as to whether or not the scheduled departures and arrivals pose any threat to national interests."  
  
A voice was heard off camera. It was female, and she asked, "Graves, do we as of yet have any confirmation – either by the White House, the Department of Homeland Security, or an independent source – as to whether or not a terrorist act has, in fact, occurred?"  
  
"We do not, Gretta," Santellano explained to his colleague as the camera widened to take in the beautiful blonde sitting at the anchor desk next to him. "As I said, at this point, all of us have been left completely in the dark as to what event precipitated the President's order to raise to Terror Alert Status to Red. For weeks, there has been no established threats within the international community ... at least, none that have been addressed in open forum. While the War of Terror does almost daily declassify and release some specifics relating to what constitutes unsubstantiated threats against American interests, CVN is standing firm on our assessment that no threat has been divulged by sources close to the President."  
  
"Any chance for you to speculate as to what's going on here, Graves?"  
  
The commentator glanced at the camera. "Any theory I have would be premature, given the fact that we've heard no word from the President or any of his aides, Gretta, and I think that this is not the time for idle speculation. Rather, this is the time for the cold hard facts behind the President's decision to come out so that it can be properly given to the American public. After all, if our nation has come under some form of terrorist attack – be it conventional, chemical, or biological – the people have to know."  
  
"I don't know about the people," Donovan said, "but I'm going to damn sure find out."  
  
Lowering the volume on the television, he reached to the bedside table and grabbed the telephone. He punched the numbers on the keypad, and he placed the receiver to his ear. After several rings, she answered.  
  
"Chloe Vandemark."  
  
"Chloe? It's Craig."  
  
Immediately, she replied, "Craig ... look ... darling ... sweetheart ... you know how much I love you, honey ... but you're going to have to trust me when I say that, of all possible times in the history that we've known one another, when I tell you that I can't talk right now, I really mean it."  
  
Oh, no, she wasn't.  
  
"What's going on, Chloe?"  
  
"Craig, really, I can't."  
  
"I have to know."  
  
"Craig, listen to me!" she suddenly blurted out in an impassioned whisper. "Dammit, Craig! We've all been sworn to secrecy down here! I'm under an oath. I can't say a word about this. Not a single word! The President is afraid that it'll be leaked to the press, so, please, don't ask me any more questions."  
  
"Chloe," he insisted, sounding sincere, "this is me you're talking to."  
  
"Don't do this, Craig. It isn't fair."  
  
"The hell with fair!" he shot. "You know that there isn't any way in hell I'm going to share any scrap of information you give me – whether it's vital or whether it's trivial – with any member of the press. You know that, and you know me well enough to understand why I can't accept 'no comment' from you."  
  
"Craig, please!"  
  
"Chloe, just give me something."  
  
The woman sighed heavily on the other end of the phone, and Donovan knew he had convinced her that sharing whatever she had – whatever tidbit of data – would be an acceptable risk.  
  
"All right," she replied, "I'm going to tell you what I know, but I swear to you, Craig Donovan, if any of this lands in CVN's hands, I'll be the first to have you pulled up on charges of conspiracy with a foreign power. You and I both know that you have absolutely no involvement with terrorist organizations, but you and I both know that the White House has staff – very competent legal staff – with the skills to make that accusation stick. If you leak this, you'll lose everything. There won't be a government organization you'll ever work for again. The only work you'll be able to find will be flipping burgers at a mom-and-pop greasy spoon joint ... so don't you dare think about crossing me."  
  
"Chloe," he tried, sounding hurt, "you know me better than that."  
  
After a moment, she explained, "I know, Craig. I know. But this ... this is big."  
  
"How big?"  
  
"This goes right to the top."  
  
Raising an eyebrow, Donovan asked, "Do you mean ... has the President been hurt?"  
  
"Not the President himself," she corrected, "but for the first time in the history of terrorism against America, a member of the President's family has been attacked."  
  
"Who?"  
  
She sighed. "It was Trace Hightower."  
  
"What about him?"  
  
"You know Trace," she muttered, sounding disgusted. "In the middle of his father-in-law's presidency, in the middle of the War on Terror, he's insisted on keeping up with usual stunts ... running around the world off on whatever pleasure adventure he can find to keep his senses on the edge. The man thrives on the thrill of the rush, and, this time, it looks like he's gone too far."  
  
Confused, Donovan asked, "What happened?"  
  
"He's dead."  
  
The cold chill crept into his face. Donovan suddenly remembered exactly how he felt when he received the news that Frank Parker – his friend, his confidant – has crashed his Sphere into a jet trying to destroy one of the World Trade Center towers. It was an ache. It was a dull, constant splinter-in-your-finger sensation that wouldn't go away. He knew it was going to amount to far more than just a minor infection. This was big, and things like this only had a tendency of getting bigger.  
  
"I don't believe it, Chloe."  
  
"Craig, we're getting confirmation right now."  
  
"Chloe ... yes, I agree with you. Trace was a risk. He's a risk as any President's son-in-law. The man is a thrill-seeker, yes ... but those thrills have shown us that the man knows how to take care of himself. He's trained with the best physical trainers in the world. He's undergone some combat excursions. Sure, it was in the name of sport, but he still participated with some of the military's best, and he held his ground. I don't believe it. I can't believe that he's dead."  
  
"Craig, I can't go into the specifics."  
  
"You're going to need someone outside of the normal channels to work with you on this," he explained.  
  
"I know you're right, Craig, but now is not the time."  
  
"Now is precisely the time," he argued. "I can do things for you in an unofficial capacity that the Secret Service can't. If Trace has fallen, then you're going to need to circle the wagons, and you're going to need the best intelligence the government payroll can afford. Tell me what you know, and I'll make that happen for you."  
  
"Craig, please ..."  
  
"What happened, Chloe?" Donovan insisted. He forced the cold from his body. Now wasn't the time to get caught up in the emotions of the moment. Now was the time to gather the facts – to determine, on his own, whether or not Hightower's death had any possible link to known terrorist Richard DeMarco being on American soil – and set a plan in place to see this horrible string of events was cut.  
  
"... and I want to know everything."  
  
END of Chapter 16 


	17. Chapter 17

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 17  
  
Five Days, Nineteen Hours, Nineteen Minutes  
  
Elbowing her way past the thick-haired tan-skinned bouncer flashing his pectoral muscles under a skin-tight silk tee, Indiri stormed into the Sanction. Dispensing with any courtesy, she ignored the hostess's offer of assistance and marched past the booth, directly into the club. The interior was lit in a dark, pulsing amber. Thick ebony tables, lit with an array of differently colored candles, were all over the floor, surrounded by thick black leather chairs. Most of the patrons were men – men who were immaculately groomed and attired in the best suits money could buy. Scantily clad women – servers – were everywhere, and, despite their blatant lack of material, Indiri was surprised to find the statuesque knock-outs tastefully garbed in outfits that left little – but enough – to the imagination. Each waitress was a bombshell. Each flaunted a desirable waistline and impressive breasts. Scanning the place, Indiri found Iceland Flaherty standing near the bar, the secretary's purse clutched close to her chest. Brushing off a waitress, she strode over to where her assistant waited.  
  
"Where is she?"  
  
Iceland didn't speak. Her lips didn't move save for a momentary twitch. Quickly, she averted her eyes, choosing to stare at the floor instead.  
  
"Iceland," Indiri demanded her attention.  
  
"I'm so sorry, ma'am."  
  
"Don't apologize," she insisted. "You have nothing to apologize for, Iceland, and I want you to understand that, despite what has happened, I'm not mad at you. All I want from you is one simple answer to one simple question."  
  
"Yes, ma'am?"  
  
"Where is Ulrika?"  
  
Sheepishly, the bookish woman glanced up at her boss. "I'm so sorry ... but it's too late."  
  
Suddenly, the grinding of guitar music eclipsed the noise of the chattering, flirting, philandering men and the giggling, cajoling, and evasive waitresses. The sound system came alive, and three spotlights immediately curled their massive beams across the Sanction to land on the curtains at the head of the runway in the middle of the club. Briskly, the curtains were drawn back, and there stood Ulrika Von Senden – in all her poised glory – wrapped in only a series of crimson veils, strategically covering all of the private places, and lustrous stiletto boots laced with blood red straps all the way up to her hips.  
  
"Oh, no," Indiri muttered.  
  
"I'm sorry," Iceland replied.  
  
"Please tell me this isn't happening."  
  
"I'm going home," her assistant said. Quickly, she shuffled around her boss and scuttled for the exit.  
  
The music grew in intensity, a slow grinding guitar rhythm – definitely a rock and roll song with a hint of blues. Indiri had heard it before. As a matter of fact, she knew precisely where she had heard it before: Ulrika had played it for her on an MP3 player in the office. It was a little known ZZ Top tune called 'Breakaway' ... and it was perfect was what Indiri guessed was about to happen.  
  
Gripping the long red sash that was slung over both shoulders, Ulrika pranced slowly, methodically, sexily down the runway – a fashion model intent on abandoning the fashion in favor of baring the perfectly shaped gifts great DNA had given her.  
  
"It's a chemical attraction I just can't slide by  
  
Every time I look into my baby's eyes  
  
I'm helpless, so helpless, so I surrender ..."  
  
The model-turned-virtual-stripper draped the long red sash as she walked, reaching the end of the runway and striking a pose in the beams of the crisscrossed spotlights. She stared – with lusty eyes – out across the men in the audience, and she made her first move, throwing her arms up in the air and dropping the sash – throwing it to the stage floor behind her.  
  
"There's a visual attraction and she's branded my soul...  
  
Simply can't deny it, she has control...  
  
I'm helpless, so helpless, so I remember ..."  
  
Slowly, Ulrika raked her fingers through her luscious head of hair, shaking it to the left and to the right in time with the slow pulse of ZZ Top's song. Gracefully, she spun toward one side of the stage, loosing another of her many veils, trailing it toward the runway's edge, until she finally released it in an arched throw at her captivated audience.  
  
Despite her best interests, Indiri had to give the woman credit: she knew precisely what she was doing to capture the hearts and imaginations of the predominantly male crowd.  
  
"She won't let me breakaway...  
  
She won't let me breakaway...  
  
I said break away, yeah, ah yeah..."  
  
Her hips swaying in time to the tune, Ulrika retreated sexily back up the runway, several more of her veils trailing in her wake. She stopped, briefly, and struck another pose, locking eyes with the dark-suited man in the crowd, pointing at him, and slowly blowing him a kiss. He smiled, nodding at her, and then she walked on, allowing the veils to drape more loosely about her torso until several of them slipped away to reveal patches of her perfect porcelain skin. Someone in the audience cheered.  
  
"We were working it though, baby we had a groove  
  
Movin' to the moment when we make our move  
  
But it happened, something happened  
  
And I'm not lying 'bout the pain ..."  
  
Twirling back to the men, Ulrika swung the veils even further away from her perfect body. She was, however, careful not to reveal the most sacred parts of her anatomy. This wasn't about displaying herself to man. This dance – this tease – was about the seduction of innocents, appealing to their most basic instincts, driving them insane with glimpses of something they couldn't have, they couldn't possess. If the model knew anything, she knew that the power-brokering men who populated Washington sought to conquer all, but she wouldn't be a slave to them. The dance – and the titillation – was meant to liberating for her ... not submissive to their desires. She worked her arms, her legs, her hips, her chest, her head, and her body to the tune, and she was obviously pleased as the men started to applaud well before the song and the act were over.  
  
"She won't let me breakaway ...  
  
She won't let me breakaway ...  
  
I said breakaway, yeah, oh yeah ..."  
  
The lights were pulsing almost in unison with every shake of her tempting body. With as seductive a smile as she could find, Ulrika crossed to the end of the runway once more, the veils even more slack, looking less and less like fabric and more like a miraculous mist covering her shape. Indiri couldn't imagine how her prized model managed to keep her feminine essentials from display, but, whatever her trick was, it worked. It worked to perfection.  
  
"I want the answer, I want my stuff ...  
  
I'm dealing with a feeling deeper than love ...  
  
But I'm helpless, so helpless, but I remember ..."  
  
The song rose to its finish now, the last refrain coming from the thumping speakers, and Ulrika took advantage of every thump to grind herself back down the length of the catwalk in the direction of the drapes.  
  
"She keeps saying breakaway ...  
  
Something's saying breakaway ...  
  
Telling me to breakaway ...  
  
Keeps on saying breakaway ..."  
  
As the guitars blared out their final rocking notes, Ulrika daringly went all the way: her back to the audience, she threw her arms up into the air, sending the loose veils raining like exploding fireworks in every conceivable direction, and she only treated the drooling men to the merest glimpse of her perfectly round, taut buttocks and muscular thighs as she slipped offstage and behind the safety of the curtain.  
  
'My, my, my,' Indiri thought as she covered her ears from the deafening cheers of the hungry men. 'How my little girl has grown up.'  
  
After the roar died down, Indiri made her way backstage. The other dancers were crowded around Ulrika. Clearly, they were congratulating her on a performance like no other this evening, and Indiri imagined that no one – not a single one of the professional dancers on the Sanction's payroll – wanted to follow that act. Swimming in the sea of beautiful women, mostly adorned in sequined outfits, the model looked up and found her boss waiting for her. Taking the congratulations in stride, she quickly made her past the gracious dancers and over to where Indiri stood.  
  
"I know what you are going to say," the model shot before Indiri had the chance to offer any words.  
  
"Do you?"  
  
"I only ask that you spare me the curse words."  
  
Pursing her lips, Indiri nodded. "In that case, I have nothing to say ... except let's get the hell out of here."  
  
Outside, the two women walked briskly toward the agent's waiting limousine. Ulrika kept trying to protest, she kept trying to offer up a few words in her own defense that would justify throwing her career away for the sake of one five-minute strip tease – even a five-minute strip tease that legends are made of – but Indiri stopped listened. Instead, she was fuming over the way the evening had ended. A few hours ago, she enjoyed a good meal with a ravishingly handsome man. He had invited her upstairs – or was that her idea? – to a room, and they had made, perhaps, the most passionate love she had experienced in her lifetime. Granted, reality overtook all of her perceptions when she woke to find that he was gone, but, in the ride over to the Sanction, she convinced herself that something had gone wrong. Something must have happened that had called Richard DeMarco away. He wasn't like other men. She was convinced of it. And while she walked quickly toward the waiting car – the driver already had opened the rear door for the two ladies – Indiri kept ticking off a multitude of reasons defending the man she barely knew for doing the unimaginable: he slipped out on her after he had apparently finished with her for the evening.  
  
'There must be something more,' she thought.  
  
"I swear to you, Indiri," Ulrika tried. "I will never, never, ever do anything like this ever again."  
  
'Maybe he received an emergency telephone call,' she continued, oblivious to Ulrika's convictions. 'Maybe a family member had fallen ill ... or maybe his business – what did he do? – maybe there was a crisis.'  
  
"It was impulsive, I know," the model ranted. "And you've always told me that impulsiveness is what my career was lacking. So, in a way, this was your idea!"  
  
'Or maybe ... maybe I was just a fool,' she told herself, her heart sinking in her chest. 'Maybe I was a fool ... living in a fool's paradise.'  
  
"If you give another chance, Indiri," Ulrika offered, "I give you my word that I will never disappoint you in the future."  
  
Nonchalantly, the talent agent stopped outside the limousine. "What?" she asked. "Were you talking to me?"  
  
Ulrika stepped forward, taking her boss into a firm embrace. "I give you my word, my sweet, sweet friend, that I will go wherever it is you tell me to go ... I will pose for whatever magazine it is you tell me to invest my time wit ... I will become a slave to your every command, Indiri, if you will just say that you forgive me."  
  
If she didn't know better, Indiri would've guessed she saw a tear slipping down Ulrika's beautiful face.  
  
Resigned, she nodded.  
  
"You're forgiven," she said. "Now, get in the car."  
  
"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!"  
  
Ulrika leapt forward, and ...  
  
... and, abruptly, her head rocked backward, snapping violently at the neck. The woman gasped, a guttural sound erupting from her throat, and Ulrika felt the wet splash erupting from Indiri's skull being cracked open by a sniper's bullet.  
  
Watching the model – a vision of perfection – slip to the asphalt in a macabre slow motion, Indiri screamed.  
  
Suddenly, the driver's arms were on her, pushing her, forcing her into the back of the limousine.  
  
"Get down, miss, get down!"  
  
She felt the 'thwack' as her own head struck the top of the doorframe, and the world swirled violently as she fought to remain conscious. As she took in another breath, she heard the explosion of glass as another bullet tore into the car window only inches above her head.  
  
"What the hell ...?"  
  
The driver climbed across her, scampering on all fours over the limousine's cushion, and he slipped over the high seat and dropped behind the wheel of the car. Righting himself as quickly as possible, he turned the keys in the ignition, and Indiri listened as the car's engine roared to life.  
  
Her vision still tumbling wildly out of control, she found her wits enough to cry out, "We're not leaving her!"  
  
Rolling toward the still-open door, she reached out and grabbed Ulrika's leather-clad leg. Ignoring the fact that she could be inflicting any more harm on the model, she pulled with all her might, dragging the now lifeless body up from the street and laying the still form on the rear seat as the driver stomped on the accelerator. The limousine lurched forward, tires screeching in the darkness, and the car howled away into the Washington night.  
  
END of Chapter 17 


	18. Chapter 18

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 18  
  
Five Days, Eighteen Hours, Thirty-Eight Minutes  
  
Ignoring the feeling of pure hatred he had for the man, Arthur Pendley stood ceremoniously greeting Ethan Stoddard. He could tell by the look on the man's face that the current crisis weighed heavily upon him – as it should. They greeted one another with a handshake, and then Stoddard said, "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Arthur, but we're very busy at the moment."  
  
"Yes," Pendley agreed, "so I've heard."  
  
The White House Chief of Staff raised an eyebrow. He stayed where he was – completely still – his stare fixed upon the elder senator. "I'm sorry, but I don't understand."  
  
Feigning politeness, Pendley smiled. "May I ask ... where is the President?"  
  
"As they told you when you arrived, Arthur: the President is unavailable."  
  
"I'd like to speak with him."  
  
"I can't help you."  
  
Stoddard stiffened as he realized that somehow the senator was aware of the situation facing the Administration – facing the entire nation – right now. He knew that the man's position on the Foreign Intelligence Committee might somehow have opened avenues for the flow of information – even the most classified – but this ... this news was entirely fresh? Once the White House communication system had been compromised ... once the satellite surveillance network had been co-opted ... the President had issued a complete lockdown. No one had been allowed in or out of the White House with the exceptions of Colonel McGinty – he was off on an errand to meet the personnel of Project Backstep – and Arthur Pendley – the man insisted on being allowed a meeting with the staff. Given those facts, how could the senator possibly know anything?  
  
"Ethan," Pendley began, "I believe our great nation has reached a crossroads. If you are the man left in charge in the President's absence, then the choices that you make in the next few hours could very well dictate how history will remember these days."  
  
The chief folded his arms across his chest, taking a defiant pose opposite the man a few years his senior.  
  
"What is this?" he demanded. "And don't play any games with me, Arthur. I want to know exactly what this is?"  
  
"What is what, Ethan?"  
  
"You arrive at the White House and demand a meeting with the President," Stoddard explained. "But ... if you have any knowledge of what's transpired in the last few hours, Arthur, then you are fully aware of what steps would be taken to protect the President. You – perhaps more than any of us – know the protocol once a member of the Presidential family is attacked ..."  
  
"Ah, yes," the senator interrupted, folding his hands across his waistline. "Protocol. The linchpin of any good democracy." He tilted his head. "We must have our rules, mustn't we? If we failed, anarchy would rouse its ugly head, and the nation would be plunged into chaos ... much like the War Room was not long ago when your satellite defense system curiously slipped from under control of the bureaucrats ... much like I would imagine the Secret Service behaved once they realized that Trace Hightower – our President's media-friendly son-in-law – had fallen victim to a – shall we say – terrorist attack?"  
  
Flashing red in the face, Stoddard called for the nearest Secret Service agents. Immediately, the dark suited men marched over and took Arthur Pendley into custody, escorting him in the direction of the nearest conference room.  
  
"Is this wise?" the senator called over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hallway.  
  
"You're getting what you deserve, Arthur."  
  
Stoddard sat at the end of the long conference table in the Cabinet Room. To his left was Samantha Breckenridge, Secretary of the Interior. To his right was Winthrop Styles, Secretary of Defense. Given the circumstances – given the nature of the national emergency – all other White House personnel had been evacuated – along with the President to an undisclosed location. It was protocol. These were necessary steps to ensure that, in the unlikely event of another unanticipated attack on the government, some form of political structure would survive. Since Hightower's death, the White House had acted entirely according to procedure, and Stoddard wouldn't have it any other way. However, Pendley's arrival – and his clear admission of awareness of events no living person outside of this room could possible know – had stopped protocol dead in its tracks. Now wasn't the time for the chaos and anarchy that the senior senator clearly wanted. Rather, now was the time to force the American system of government – and its corresponding agencies – to serve at peak efficiency.  
  
A door opened, and Chloe Vandemark – Stoddard's aide in managing the White House personnel – walked in. She approached the table, went to her boss, and whispered in his ear: "The Secret Service has confirmed that the President and the other members of the Cabinet are safe."  
  
Stoddard nodded to her, and the red-headed woman quickly moved around the others and took a chair.  
  
At the far end of the table, Arthur Pendley sat, a plain smile on his regal face. Agents of the Secret Service stood on his right, his left, and at his back.  
  
"Gentlemen," Stoddard announced, "let's begin."  
  
Leonard 'Match' Thomkins, a director for the Secret Service, stood on Pendley's right. Casually, he pulled back a chair and sat down next to the senator. His moves – as was his demeanor – were practiced and precise. He gestured for the agent opposite him – Orlando Baines – to sit at the table. The man did.  
  
"Senator Pendley," Thomkins finally began, "tell us what you know about Trace Hightower."  
  
The elder statesman didn't reply. He stayed perfectly still at the table, staring in the direction of the White House staff, his eyes locked with Ethan Stoddard.  
  
"Senator Pendley," the agent repeated, "I will not ask you again."  
  
"Good," finally came the reply. "You'll only be wasting your breath."  
  
"You will answer my question, sir."  
  
"I have no need to provide you anything, young man."  
  
"You will answer my question, sir, or Mr. Baines will make you answer my question."  
  
"Is this absolutely necessary, Ethan?" Pendley cried out from his end of the conference table.  
  
Interrupting, Thomkins snapped, "You will speak to me, senator. You will speak only to me until you have been notified otherwise by the Chief of Staff."  
  
"Ethan?"  
  
"What do you know about Trace Hightower?"  
  
"I know that he is dead," Pendley finally exhaled his answer.  
  
"How did you come by this information?"  
  
"That is simple," the senator said. "I'm the one who killed him."  
  
Thomkins wouldn't allow for the emotional impact to derail his efforts. The interrogation had to remain focused and on track. "Why did you kill Mr. Hightower?"  
  
"I never much cared for him."  
  
"Sir, that is not an answer."  
  
"It's as good as you'll get, young man."  
  
Nodding at Baines, Thomkins watched as the Secret Service agent pulled his silver Glock from under his dark jacket and placed it on the table.  
  
"I will ask you the question one more time, senator," the director stated. "Your refusal to answer will result in the use of deadly force. Do you understand me?"  
  
"I understand you perfectly."  
  
"Why did you kill Mr. Hightower?"  
  
Pendley nodded. "To send a message."  
  
"To whom did you wish to send a message?"  
  
"Isn't that obvious?"  
  
"To whom did you wish to send a message?" Thomkins knew that Pendley was only trying to bandy word games with him, but he would have nothing to do with it.  
  
"To your boss," Pendley answered. "To the President of the United States."  
  
"What message did you wish to send?"  
  
Finally, Pendley admitted, "To make it perfectly clear that he had made a fatal mistake."  
  
"What mistake would that be, sir?"  
  
Sighing, Pendley sank a bit in his chair. "The President should have offered me a seat at this table, young man. His fatal mistake was in failing to do so."  
  
Unable to remain silent any longer, Ethan Stoddard slammed his open palm to the conference table. The sound echoed throughout the room like gunshot.  
  
"Is that what this is all about, Arthur?" the chief of staff demanded.  
  
Thomkins held up a hand. "Mr. Stoddard, according to Executive Order, I am the ranking officer, and I am to conduct this interrogation."  
  
Angrily, Stoddard waved back at the agent. "Then you ask him the damn question I just asked!"  
  
"Please, please," Pendley offered, holding up a hand, "it's all right. I'll answer the question for the both of you." He closed his eyes, gathering his strength, before continuing. "I made it perfectly clear that, in delivering my state's electoral votes in the last election, my expectations would be to sit in the President's Cabinet. I made no such predictions as to which position I wanted. That was entirely up to the President. However, he made no such offer, and now we are facing the first of many consequences for his negligence."  
  
"The first ...?" Stoddard asked. "The first of many consequences?"  
  
"That is correct."  
  
"Arthur," the chief tried, leaning forward in his chair, "if all this took was a seat at the table, why in the name of God didn't you come and speak with me?"  
  
Again, Thomkins tried to maintain control of the situation. "Mr. Stoddard, if you please ..."  
  
Rising, the chief ordered, "Stand down, Mr. Thomkins, or I will have you removed from your position!"  
  
"Given the present circumstances, sir, you do not have the authority."  
  
"By God, man, I'll remove you myself ... if I have to!"  
  
"Gentlemen, please," Pendley interrupted, "let's keep this civil, shall we?"  
  
"Civil?" Stoddard shoved his chair out from behind him and marched around the table. "You executed the President's son-in-law, and now you have the nerve to sit here and accuse the rest of us of what, Arthur? Being discourteous? Rude? Unprofessional?" He reached the end of the conference table. Baines rose from his chair and cut him off from reaching the senator. "What do you think is going to happen? Do you think we can turn back the clock on this entire scenario, Arthur, for the sole purpose of granting you – a professed killer – one of the highest seats in our government today?"  
  
Pendley pursed his lips in thought. "We do have the technology, Ethan, to do exactly that?"  
  
Confused, the chief asked, "A backstep? Is that what you're demanding, Arthur?" He folded his arms before him. "The BackStep Program is at operational standby ... for the time being."  
  
"Why is that?"  
  
"That is none of your business."  
  
"This isn't a wise course of action, Ethan."  
  
"And yours is?"  
  
"Mr. Stoddard!" Thomkins tried. "I will have my agents remove you from this room."  
  
"You do that," the chief threatened, "and I'll have the lot of you removed from the White House. Don't challenge me on this, Thomkins. I may not be the President, but I can make this happen. You and your men will be lucky to find employment as security guards once I'm done with you. I won't sit here and be threatened by our own homegrown terrorist."  
  
"Ethan, please."  
  
The chief of staff pulled out a chair and sat next down next to Baines.  
  
"Let me understand what it is you're asking, Arthur," Stoddard announced. "You want me to order a backstep in order to spare the life of Trace Hightower. In exchange for that action, you expect to be granted a seat within the Cabinet. Is that what this is all about?"  
  
Slowly, Pendley smiled.  
  
"I didn't think so," the chief shot.  
  
"Am I so transparent?"  
  
"Aren't all terrorists?"  
  
Clearing his throat, the senator sat up in the chair. "You're right, Ethan. You are. I am that transparent, but I do believe that the present situation you find yourself in warrants that you hear what demands I have. If you refuse to meet my demands, then I will have no other choice but to see to it that my own personal weapon of mass destruction be used in a second wave of attacks ... and I give you my assurance that a series of second strikes will be far more detrimental than the first."  
  
Leaning forward, Stoddard asked, "Do you really think we're going to let you walk out of here, Arthur?"  
  
"Hear me out, my good man, and I think you will understand that you have no other choice."  
  
END of Chapter 18 


	19. Chapter 19

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 19  
  
At the same time   
  
The pilot set the Boeing down easily on the runway, the plane's wheels screeching their protest as the black rubber met the painted asphalt, and BackStep One arrived in Washington, D.C. Braking hard, the pilot slowed the aircraft and gradually steered it around the airfield, taxiing in the direction of the secured NSA hangar. Through his cockpit windows, he could see that the ground crew was already in place. The first agent held up his orange wands – small beacons of lava in the evening darkness – and he conducted the pilot all the way to the stop-line. Immediately, another crewmember chocked the wheels to secure the plane in place, to keep it from rolling, and yet another maneuvered the mobile staircase into position.  
  
Aboard the aircraft, one of the technicians released the seal on the door, cranked the arm over, and opened the plane.  
  
Bradley Talmadge stepped through the large oval doorway. Marching down the stairs, he noticed the uniformed man approached – it was a man he recognized – and he waved. "Colonel McGinty!" he exclaimed. "Well, in troubled times like these, it's certainly good to see a friendly face."  
  
Extending his hand, McGinty smiled. The two men shook hands warmly. "It's been an awful lot of Hell and high water since Alamogordo, director."  
  
Talmadge nodded. "I think that we can all say our prayers for that."  
  
"That we can, sir." Glancing back up the stairway, he asked, "Is your team ready?"  
  
Talmadge nodded. "They'll be down shortly. Most of them have been up for the last twenty-four hours. They're functioning on catnaps, as it is. But, suffice it to say, they're all ready to learn more about what's been going on while we've been in the air." With a look of concern, he tried, "What the devil happened with Hightower?"  
  
Aboard BackStep One, Nina Welles and Ebdon Finkle helped Frank Parker get to his feet. The chrononaut stumbled, the dead weight of the suit nearly forcing him back down onto his cot, but he forced his feet under him and stood wobbling until they offered their support.  
  
"This is going to be difficult at first, Frank," Nina warned, steadying the man where he stood by bracing her hands on his back. "You've been asleep – lying down – and your body hasn't adjusted to the added weight of the containment suit."  
  
"Tell me something I don't know."  
  
"You're sounding crabby," she replied, "like a child who needs a nap."  
  
"Thanks for reminding me, mom," Parker quipped.  
  
Almost simultaneously, Ebdon reached up and whacked the back of the chrononaut's thick helmet. More surprised than angered, the chrononaut glanced back at the elderly restaurant owner turned government agent.  
  
"What the hell was that for, Ebdon?"  
  
"Fool," the old man challenged playfully.  
  
"What?" Parker protested. "What did I do?"  
  
"Well, if Nina's your mother, then that makes me your father," the man explained, "and no son of mine – hero or not – disrespects the woman of the house."  
  
Surrendering to the both of them, Parker chuckled as the three of them laughed in unison, making their way together through the isolation chamber's airlock.  
  
Stretching as she shook herself from a deep sleep, Olga Vukavitch was oblivious to the fact that she was accidentally dumping all of her mission files onto the floor of the aircraft. She swore under her breath, leaning down to gather them back together into neat piles. Quickly, Michelson unhooked his seatbelt and lowered himself to help.  
  
"I'm such a klutz," Olga said.  
  
"Stop it," he told her. "It isn't your fault."  
  
She muttered another Russian curse word under her breath.  
  
"We've all been up for hours," Michelson explained. "As a doctor, you should know what sleep deprivation does to anyone." He sighed. "The way this mission is shaping up, we'll be lucky to catch twenty winks let alone forty any time soon."  
  
Begrudgingly, she agreed. Taking the files from his hands, she sat back in her seat, uncertain of what to say next. The two of them had remained silent most of the trip. Actually, the silence aboard BackStep One was little more than an extension of what had begun back in NeverNever Land. Parker's untimely arrival – a virtual resurrection from the dead, if there ever were one – had awakened something in her that she couldn't admit to herself ... much less to the new man in her life.  
  
"Channing?"  
  
Standing, he turned to her.  
  
"You know how I feel about you ... don't you?" she asked.  
  
Resigned, the man nodded. "Didn't we already had this conversation back in Nevada?"  
  
"Channing, please."  
  
"I do know how you feel, sweetheart ... but now isn't the time," he assured her. "I know exactly how you feel. But there's ... there's far more at stake right now than just you and I." Reaching out, he took her nearest hand in his and squeezed. "Look, let's keep things as together as possible right now, okay? Trust me, Olga. That's the only way either of us are going to be able to see this thing through."  
  
Smiling, she gripped his hand tighter. She couldn't believe that – after all these years – she had found someone so perfect, so utterly perfect to spend her life with.  
  
"Thank you, Channing."  
  
Isaac Mentnor glanced through the window at the military personnel rushing about the hangar, and he said, "This is precisely why I left the BackStep Program."  
  
Yawning, Ramsey sat up in his seat, adjusting his tie. He dipped his fingers in his clear glass of water and brought the liquid up to his neck, scrubbing it along the back. "What's that, Isaac?"  
  
"The military," Mentnor said.  
  
"What about 'em?"  
  
"After September 11th, things fell apart," the man said. "Nathan, I don't think that at any other time in human history we – as a culture – ever lost more control of ourselves. Frank died, saving thousands of lives in what would've been the worst possible terrorist disaster on our soil ... but that didn't end it. It should have. His sacrifice should have stopped all of the ... all of the chaos."  
  
Ramsey sniffed. "I don't know that I agree with you there, Isaac."  
  
"The world," Mentnor continued. "All of a sudden, it became a much smaller place." He stared out the window, watching the soldiers preparing a makeshift briefing area for the team. "What we believed could never possibly ever happen in America happened ... and it woke the world from a much more welcome dream."  
  
The younger man unclipped his seatbelt and stood up. "Isaac, you're a smart man. You always have been. Hell, you're the smartest man I've ever known, and that says something. But I think you're missing the point, my friend. If you really think about it, we've never had control of our world. That's the only problem any of us should be concerned with."  
  
The scientist glanced up at the security director. "What do you mean?"  
  
Momentarily lost in thought, Ramsey tried, "The way I see things, we've never had control of anything. We've always convinced ourselves that we did. It was ... what do they call it ... a fool's paradise?" He smiled. "Hell, since the beginning of time, we've all answered to a higher power. For me, I've always answered to Bradley. For the proud men and women out there running around following orders, it's their commanding officer." He winced. "If you believe in God, then the Almighty sets the ground rules ... so, any way you shake the tree, the apples are always grown by somebody else."  
  
Mentnor studied the younger man's expression. "Nathan, I don't think I've ever heard you speak so plainly."  
  
Laughing, Ramsey leaned over and grabbed his grey suit coat from the chair beside him. He always wore grey, and Mentnor guessed that the director of security must've found something 'absolute' about choosing and staying with a signature color.  
  
"It's only my opinion," Ramsey said, "but all those terrorists did was answer the call they heard from a higher power. I'm not saying it's right. I'm saying ... I'm just saying that that is all they did." He cocked his head to one side. "And now, for answering that call, our boys and girls are serving it right back in their faces in every hot spot around the world. Me? I wouldn't mind being there in the thick of it with 'em. It may not be the most glamorous scenario I can imagine, but it sure beat the hell out of most alternatives I can think of."  
  
The scientist smiled. "Well, I – for one – am glad that you're here."  
  
Turning, Ramsey placed a hand on the scientist's shoulder. "Right back at you, Isaac." Righting himself, adjusting his suit coat, he concluded, "Now, let's get out there and learn whose butt we're going to kick for the latest mess Parker caused."  
  
As he watched the director walk away under the shadow of that all-too- familiar gray coat, Mentnor thought, "Well – for the briefest possible moment – I thought I was glad that you were here!"  
  
END of Chapter 19 


	20. Chapter 20

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 20  
  
Five Days, Eighteen Hours, Twenty-Five Minutes  
  
"Let's get one thing perfectly clear between every man and woman in this room," Arthur Pendley stated matter-of-factly. Taking a moment, he gazed at the faces around the White House conference table, and he trusted that – despite whatever hard feelings they might be harboring toward him at this time for what he had done – he nevertheless held them captive under a spell. They couldn't act. They couldn't move. They could hardly think without the possibility – however remote – that he had set another strike in motion ... and he would be sure to remind them of that reality before this conversation was finished. "What I'm asking for is not subject to debate. What I'm asking for is not subject to recall. I won't lower myself to bartering with any member of the Cabinet, much less the top man himself." Nodding in the direction of the President's chief of staff, he added, "I'm far from the ordinary thug you presently think me to be, Ethan. We served together – briefly – in the Senate. We shared some great debates. You – of all people – should know exactly what I'm capable of."  
  
Stoddard was unfazed. He kept his features perfectly still. "We're all listening, Arthur," he said with stoic assurance.  
  
Pendley smiled warmly. "Very good." He placed his hands on the table.  
  
"Tell us what it is you want?"  
  
"First, I would like my condolences expressed to President Campbell." Noticing the sudden irritation growing amongst the other members of the Cabinet, he quickly interrupted, "At present, he's lost only a son-in-law. It's a tragic loss. Heaven forbid it became a blood relative ... or a member of his Cabinet who has not gone into hiding at the behest of the Secret Service. That would – why – that would be a personal, national, and political catastrophe."  
  
The chief blew hot air through his nostrils. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, but his beliefs weren't at question here. The demands of a madman were.  
  
Calmly, he agreed, "I'll express your sympathies to the President when I speak with him, Arthur. I give you my word on that."  
  
"We needn't be uncivilized, Ethan."  
  
"I wasn't aware that I implied otherwise."  
  
Shifting in his chair, Pendley considered the nearest Secret Service agent. "From where you are – seated comfortably in your chair, surrounded by friends – I daresay that you see the world through rose-tinted glasses. Me? I sit here surrounded by the best and brightest of Campbell's armed thugs, for all the good they did him ... or you."  
  
"They serve their purpose," Stoddard explained, "and you know it."  
  
"Have them removed."  
  
"No," the chief emphasized.  
  
"Ethan, you will have them removed," Pendley threatened, "or this meeting is over."  
  
Trying to control his anger, Stoddard closed his eyes. He knew he had no alternative. He had to do as he was told – for the time being – until an opportunity presented itself.  
  
"Mr. Thomkins," he said pleasantly. "If you please, take your men outside."  
  
"Mr. Stoddard ..."  
  
"That was an order, Match." He hoped referring to the man by his nickname – his Secret Service codename – would soften the blow to the man's ego. He had served several Presidents, and standing down was not an order any agent took easily.  
  
"But, sir, Mr. Pendley is a more than an ordinary threat to our way of life. If you would just permit me to ..."  
  
"Now."  
  
Slowly, the agents rose. Thomkins – his expression grim – shuffled slowly toward the door, following his agents. Staring back at the senator, he closed the double doors very deliberately until they latched.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
"Don't thank me, Arthur," Stoddard warned, opening his eyes, glaring at the man. "They're not even seconds away. I give the word – I give so much as a knock on this table – and they'll be through those doors with their weapons drawn and cocked. Do you know how fragile the situation will become? Do you realize how those men live for moments like you've presented?"  
  
"Ethan?" Pendley tilted his head to the left, bringing his hands together on the tabletop. "If I didn't know better, I'd guess you were threatening me." The man paused. "Is that what you are doing? Are you threatening me?"  
  
"You're damn right, I am." He raised a finger and pointed it at the table. "This President has made a stand against the kind of terror tactics you're waging against us. You know that it is our government's expressed position to refuse negotiation with terrorists, and that's exactly what you've become. You. A terrorist. You're nothing more than a man with a big stick right now, and you're itching for the chance to show us how hard you can swing it. Well, I'm not about to give you that chance."  
  
"Is that wise?"  
  
"I don't care what it is, Arthur."  
  
"Think of all you'd be placing at stake?"  
  
"You didn't want to debate this issue, Arthur, but now you're sitting there trying to bait me into unnecessary word plays and senseless mind games." He locked eyes with the senator, showing him that he would only be pushed so far. "If you have something to say, then I would ask that you begin saying it. If you have demands to make, then we'd like to hear them. Otherwise, you're just wasting our time."  
  
Chuckling to himself, Pendley nodded. "Then ... I must continue."  
  
"Please do."  
  
Lifting his chin like an orator, the man offered, "My demands are few and simple."  
  
"Demands?"  
  
"Yes," Pendley said. "I would prefer to call them requests, but I would assume that you're all thinking otherwise ... so we'll cut to the chase. Forgive me if you find them a bit predictable. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely, as they say, but I have few and simple needs, as a result. As I said, first, I ask that you express my best regards over the loss of Trace Hightower to the President and to his family. Regardless of how you may hold me in contempt for seeing that American Prince Charming vanquished, I am still a human being and a citizen. I share our President's grief."  
  
"I've already assured you that the President will know how you feel, Arthur."  
  
"Thank you. Second," he continued, "I ask that an Executive Order be drafted. This document shall relinquish – effective immediately – all proprietary control over the Office of the Presidency to me." Leaning forward a bit, he clarified, "I do not wish for this to be drawn into law and voted upon, Ethan. This isn't any amendment to the Constitution." He rolled his eyes. "Yes, Campbell may remain in the Oval Office, for all I care, though he may wish to take some time away given his recent loss. I know that I would, were I to be fortunate enough to have been blessed with a son-in-law much less a son."  
  
Stoddard nodded. "So ... this is all about power?"  
  
"Isn't it always?" The senator smiled. "As I said, you'll have to forgive my predictability. But, as to the specifics of my demand, there is no need to alarm the democratically-minded free people of the United States. Let them have their elections every four years. Let them live blissfully ignorant to the true machinations of the inner government – the true government – my government."  
  
He cleared his throat. "Third, I ask that, following the creation of the Executive Order, the management of the Federal Emergency Management Agency be redirected to me. I said I am a man of simple needs, and, in order to have them brought under my control, I will need to make use of the Black Military. I do not want conventional military officers assigned to FEMA, Ethan. I want only those officers already assigned to report to me." He rapped his knuckles on the table. "Don't try pulling any aces out of your sleeve. Serving on the Senate Foreign Intelligence Committee, I do have access to personnel records." He sighed heavily. "Fourth, I ask that all materials regarding the BackStep Program – both public and private – be surrendered to me."  
  
"BackStep?" Stoddard suddenly asked. "What do you want with BackStep?"  
  
"It isn't what I want, Ethan," Pendley explained. "It's what I want to avoid, namely the revision of the last seven days of our history. I've worked very hard not so much to see my plan set in motion as I have to see the impending results achieved. The BackStep Program will be discontinued, Ethan. You need to understand what I'm demanding, so I'm going to be perfectly clear on this. I'm not asking for you to officially close NeverNeverLand and its temporal operations. Rather, I want the place – even its personnel, if you would be so inclined – burned to ashes."  
  
Slowly, the chief shook his head. "Larnord will never let that happen."  
  
"Yes," the senator agreed, sounding pleased with himself. "That much, I am anticipating. Which brings me to my fifth and final demand."  
  
Everyone around the table remained completely silent.  
  
"Larnord is to be executed."  
  
Stoddard felt his jaw start to drop, but he brought his astonishment under control. His face grew hot, and he hoped that he hadn't turned deep red.  
  
"Arthur, you're a senator," he tried. "Your father served five terms in the House. You come from a wealthy family that stretches back to the Mayflower. You have the benefit of an ancestor of every generation since serving in public office. I don't have to tell you how our system of governance works behind these closed doors. You know – damn well, I might add – that there is absolutely no possible way any of us can convince the President of the United States to sanction the murder of any innocent person, much less the first visitor to our planet from another world."  
  
"These are non-negotiable demands, Ethan."  
  
"Arthur, be reasonable."  
  
"Don't involve the President," the senator answered. "Be a man, Ethan. Rise to the occasion. You have some military training. Certainly, I know that you have training with a firearm. Execute the alien yourself." Smiling, Pendley took in a breath of fresh air. "I know that you feel as I do. I know that, despite Larnord's gift of the Sphere to our world, he's done nothing but meddle with the operations of the NSA. He's overridden BackStep missions that would've benefited human history, and he's authorized missions that resulted in sheer chaos. He's crippled our ability to make use of time travel to insure and protect the sovereignty of the United States. With that technology, Ethan, we are the only superpower in perhaps the universe."  
  
"But you would have it destroyed."  
  
"I only want NeverNeverLand destroyed," Pendley corrected. "The materials – the science, the Sphere – those I want in my possession."  
  
"You can't fly it," Stoddard argued.  
  
"I believe I have someone – under my employ – who can, should the need arise."  
  
"You won't be able to maintain it."  
  
"You'd be surprised what resources I have at my disposal, Ethan."  
  
"Arthur," the chief tried, fumbling desperately for a counterpoint, "you know I can't do that."  
  
"I don't see that you have any other choice." The man showed an expression of curiosity to the chief. "Come now. In my position with the Senate, I've had to order men and women to commit far worse deeds – actions with far greater consequence to the perceived benevolence of our government were the mission objectives and outcomes known by the American people. You have no idea how many times I've voted to have others killed. Yes, I have no doubt that some of them were innocent, but there are sacrifices that need to be made, Ethan, all in the name of peace."  
  
With that, the senator rose in his chair, the legs squeaking across the marble floor. "I do understand how our system of governance works, Ethan. I know that you will need some time to inform the President. I know that you will need some additional time to convince him whatever course of action you believe appropriate is the right choice ... and I do so very much hope that you make the right choice." The man lifted his arm and glanced at his wristwatch. "However, that doesn't preclude me from expecting a show of good faith, and I've always expected the very best of those with which I've worked. I'll make one request with a time limit. If you can do that for me, then I'll grant you however long you need – within reason – to make a decision with the President on the transfer of power."  
  
Stoddard rose, standing eye-to-eye with the senator. "What are you asking?"  
  
"I am asking for Larnord's head ... within five hours."  
  
At the table, Chloe Vandemark gasped.  
  
The chief knew that the senator was hoping the demand would elicit such a response, but he wouldn't give the man the satisfaction.  
  
"What if the President refuses to sacrifice Larnord?"  
  
"Refusal isn't an option."  
  
"Arthur, be reasonable."  
  
The senator stiffened. "Then tell the President that, in five hours, I will give him another demonstration of the power of destruction I already possess." He smiled. "And you can give him my word that I will select a private target – a military target – somewhere far from public scrutiny so as to protect the integrity of his legacy from the political pundits."  
  
That was it. There was nothing more to be said. Pendley had made his demands perfectly clear, and Stoddard was at a loss to convince the man otherwise. The fate of America – as well as the balance of world peace – would be decided ...  
  
... within five hours.  
  
"I'll take my leave of you," the senator announced.  
  
With one last try, the chief warned, "Arthur, you're making a mistake."  
  
"If it is, then it is mine to be made."  
  
The two men gave one another a final poker face.  
  
"Please have my car brought around front, and please have my driver returned behind the wheel. You've no doubt had the poor soul under the same type of Gestapo interrogation I've endured, but I've no doubt that he persevered under the best agents still available for the task. As you can see, I've chosen my friends wisely, Ethan." Pendley waggled a finger at the chief. "Have whatever tracking device you've had installed in my limousine removed. The car is outfitted with the technology to detect and neutralize such devices, so they'll be of no use to you. Don't bother having me followed. That will only result in my adjusting the timetable of my next demonstration."  
  
As the man stepped toward the doors, Stoddard asked, "How will I reach you?"  
  
"I'll reach you," Pendley explained. "If I recall, you and I have a direct connection via the War Room, eh? Don't be late, Ethan. I don't like to be kept waiting."  
  
END of Chapter 20 


	21. Chapter 21

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 21  
  
At the same time   
  
Matthew sat behind the wheel of the rental – a black 2003 Dodge Stratus – with his cellular phone opened. He scanned the screen for the information he anticipated, and he hoped that – through sheer will – he would make the necessary data appear. Unfortunately, he wasn't powerful enough to command every stream of info in the universe, and he was forced to wait.  
  
He hated waiting. Although he had learned many years ago that it was a necessary component to every mission he had worked, planned, or completed, he refused to grow used to it. Patience was a trait he wished on his enemies because he could use their patience as a tactical advantage. Right now, however, he knew that he had no advantage. His next move – any combination of strategic responses – was predicated on waiting. Waiting for Lisa. Waiting for an explanation. Waiting for information.  
  
Nervously, he tapped his foot on the floorboard.  
  
"Relax," DeMarco offered from the passenger seat. His window rolled down, the man sat staring out into the dark houses.  
  
"You know me all too well, Richard," the driver replied. "I can't relax."  
  
"Matthew," the man replied. "Don't trouble yourself."  
  
"I can't help it."  
  
"There is no need to worry so ..."  
  
Suddenly, the back door opened. With some effort, Lisa slipped inside and dropped to the seat. She released several sounds – fatigue, frustration – and looked to her companions.  
  
Menacingly, Matthew glared into the backseat at her. "Where have you been?"  
  
She knew she had it coming. She trusted she would hear about her 'failure' for the rest of the mission. Her brother was not as understanding as Richard, she realized, and she would have to answer for her own actions.  
  
"I was disposing of the rifle," Lisa explained, stressing each syllable, trying to hold her own in their complex relationship.  
  
"Where?" he demanded.  
  
"Where do you think?"  
  
"That is not a wise answer, Lisa."  
  
She bit her lip before telling him, "Exactly where you told me to dispose of it, Matthew."  
  
"At least you did that right."  
  
"What is that supposed to mean?"  
  
Disgustedly, he turned away from her and back to his wireless phone. "It means what you think it means, little sister. It's a shame you couldn't show the same dedication when it came to other matters."  
  
"Look," she tried, fighting the impulse to reach into the front and slap her brother alongside his head, "it isn't my fault. Farris had left the hotel room."  
  
With a look of surprise, DeMarco glanced into the back. "When I left her, she was sleeping like a baby."  
  
"I don't doubt it," Lisa said. "However, when I found her, she was in the elevator."  
  
"Why didn't you do something then?" Matthew asked.  
  
Incredulous, she replied, "What was I supposed to do? You know – as well as I do – that the elevator had a security sound system! Besides, the security camera on the seventh floor would have already recorded her stepping into the car! If she didn't exit at the bottom, then the Heston's crack security team would've investigated immediately, and we'd quite possibly be in a far worse situation." She took a deep breath, reaching up and ruffling her own hair. "I took the only possible course of action available to me, Matthew. Yes, I let her go! But I followed her outside. I watched her get into her limousine. I tailed the car to its location." Cocking her eye in the direction of DeMarco – she wanted to know how he'd respond when she said it, she'd wanted to know since she realized it would affect him – she added, "She went to a gentleman's club, and she came out with a woman."  
  
DeMarco showed no response. He only kept staring at her.  
  
"When the opportunity presented itself," Lisa insisted, "I took the shot."  
  
"But you missed the target," Matthew explained, his attention locked to the small screen on his phone.  
  
"Her date stepped in my way."  
  
"Lisa, in our business, you don't miss."  
  
"Matthew, I did everything ..."  
  
"Lisa," DeMarco interrupted, his voice firm. "Do not argue with your brother." He kept his eyes on her. "Matthew is right." He softened his tone, explaining, "If you want to continue in this line of work, then you have to understand that learning from your mistakes – and this was a very dangerous mistake despite everything you've said or however you may feel about the circumstances – that learning from your mistakes is critical." To her surprise, he winked. "It is simple. Next time you take a shot, you simply cannot miss. That is all you need to learn from this."  
  
She locked eyes with the terrorist. He wasn't glaring at her, not the way her brother looked. He was admiring her. She knew that glint in his eye was far more intimate than anger, disappointment, or frustration. He liked her. He was attracted to her. Unlike her brother, DeMarco was willing to share his philosophy, his secrets, his advice in a fashion that she was willing to accept, that she wanted to understand. Also, by the look in his eyes, she knew he would share his body with her. He genuinely wanted her, she felt, to not only be a better operative in this dangerous line of work but also he wanted her ... as a woman ... as an equal ... as a confidante ... as a lover.  
  
Sexily, she smiled back at him, and he nodded.  
  
"I understand," Lisa said. "I'm sorry for failing."  
  
"Nonsense," DeMarco replied. "Don't apologize. Never apologize. What you do is you make it right. That is what your brother is attempting to do right now."  
  
As if it had heard him, the phone in Matthew's hand beeped.  
  
"Finally."  
  
The screen lit up, and Matthew read the text response.  
  
"They've taken her to the George Washington University Hospital," he announced.  
  
"Who?" Lisa asked.  
  
"Ulrika Von Sendon," he replied. "The woman – Farris's date – you shot in the head. She was pronounced dead upon arrival, but police have been dispatched to interview the witnesses at the scene."  
  
DeMarco moaned. "Not the police," he muttered.  
  
Glancing over at the terrorist, Matthew said, with some delight, "It only means we'll need more ammunition, my friend."  
  
Quietly, the car slipped away from the curve and drove off into the cover of night.  
  
END of Chapter 21 


	22. Chapter 22

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 22  
  
At the same time   
  
Hangar Zero-Zero-Nine was relatively ominous to serve as a temporary operational headquarters for the BackStep Team, Talmadge mused, but, given the present circumstances, it would have to suffice. Dark rafters high overhead were draped with thick electric cables that filtered power throughout the place from the building's private generator. Huge aluminum ceiling lamps hung down, their collective brilliance illuminating every square inch of the interior. Massive optical displays and computer workstations with supporting banks of CPUs were spread out over the floor. Every door attached to the building had not one but two armed guards – heavily armed with enough weaponry for any eventuality – and Talmadge decided he'd speak with McGinty about repositioned that manpower once the time was ripe. He understood perfectly the need for heightened security, but he didn't need the firepower to start World War III; as a matter of fact, he was trying to prevent it.  
  
"We'll dispense with the cursory introductions for the time being and get right down to the brass tacks, ladies and gentlemen," Colonel Travis McGinty began, his hands folded neatly in front of him. "As I understand from Director Talmadge, all of you have been fully briefed as to the nature of the threat currently facing our nation."  
  
"Yes, Travis," the director replied. "I held a briefing in flight to alert my team."  
  
Sighing heavily, the colonel lowered his gaze at the conference table. "I don't believe I need to tell you this, Bradley, but the President isn't very pleased with your decision to countermand his call for a BackStep."  
  
With grim determination, Talmadge nodded. "I wouldn't expect him to be."  
  
"He's going to need to understand your rationale."  
  
"I wouldn't expect any sane person to be happy with my decision to call off a BackStep that might save the life of a loved one, but, in my capacity as director of the program, it was still my responsibility to make that judgment call." Tugging nervously at his ear, he continued, "The President is dealing with the most inconsolable loss known to man – death. In the past three years and for decades before, this country has dealt with more than our fair share of it. It's our curse for being the only remaining global superpower. For any of us, death is a life-altering event. It affects us deeply for months and years afterwards. Some people say that death opens a scar that never heals. I'm not one to dwell on such matters. In my position, I can't. However, setting the emotions aside and speaking strictly from a tactical point of view, I think authorizing a BackStep at this point is premature."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"Travis, you know our protocols for any BackStep," the director insisted, slightly perturbed with the question. "What we do and how we do it has never been any secret. We've always operated after gathering the necessary field data to ensure the greatest probability of success. What do we know about Trace Hightower's death?"  
  
"You have the same intelligence we do," the colonel confessed. "If there were more, I'd certainly place it in your hands."  
  
"Then, based upon the facts you've provided, we know next to nothing that will guarantee a tactical advantage." Defiantly, Talmadge shook his head. "Under the circumstances, I refuse to risk the greater loss of life by sending any chrononaut back in time without so much as an inkling of what to expect."  
  
From his chair at the table, Isaac Mentnor leaned forward. "Colonel, if I may add a word?"  
  
McGinty nodded agreeably. "Of course, Dr. Mentnor."  
  
"Thank you. Sir, I'm inclined to support the director's position solely on the grounds that Frank Parker – or an alternate version of him – has reappeared in our timeline," the scientist explained. "That fact alone raises hundreds of questions that no person – with the possible exception of Larnord – can answer. I've been studying the possibilities since I returned to the Project, and the variations of what could go wrong are as equally unprecedented as this attack. At this point, I'm not convinced that another BackStep – a second one – is wise." He held up a hand, showing two fingers. "Two BackSteps in a three-day period?" He shook his head. "Sir, that's a risk we've never taken. It's a gamble we've never had the technology to even consider. Without further study, we have absolutely no way of knowing what effect – if any – it could have on the space/time continuum."  
  
"Time is not a luxury we have on our side, doctor," McGinty said, "except with the use of a BackStep."  
  
"I'm not ruling it out, sir," Mentnor corrected. "I'm only asking that we carefully consider all of the consequences before we even make the attempt."  
  
Slowly, the colonel nodded at the group. "All right. I understand your position, and it's an explanation President Campbell will need to hear."  
  
"I have no problem supporting the rationale for my decision to the President, Travis," the director stated. "If need be, I'll send Isaac. He's better suited for such a task."  
  
"Very good." The colonel smiled. "Much of what I have to add, then, will be incidental to information you know." He straightened, where he stood, and addressed the members of the BackStep team gathered around the black conference table. "President Campbell, his family, and most members of the Cabinet have been moved to an undisclosed location," the colonel explained. "I'm certain that you understand why I cannot go into any further detail as this is a matter of national security. Also, it's to our benefit that the legislative branch is not currently in session. This eliminates any need to find each and every senator or representative in order to have them, as well, moved to a government safehouse outside of the District of Columbia. I am personally aware of several senators who maintain residence within the district limits, and they have been asked to evacuate the area."  
  
"Evacuate?" Parker asked. "Why?"  
  
"Colonel," Ebdon Finkle finally spoke up, "you're not trying to tell me that the President would have us tuck our tail between our legs and run to hide like some scared dog?"  
  
"Mr. Finkle, I've seen the results of this attack. Trust me, sir, when I say that we may have no other choice but to run and hide."  
  
"Why does the President feel it necessary to take such extreme measures?" Talmadge pressed. "Travis, this isn't because I refused an immediate BackStep, is it?"  
  
"As you know, 9/11 caused us to rethink all of our strategic response scenarios when it comes to dealing with acts of terrorism. Evacuation of the Executive Branch became standard operating procedure, as we now work under the assumption that no terrorist threat is independent. If an oil refinery is struck off the shores of Texas, then we've been re-educated to see that as only the first domino to fall. The theory is that there may yet be additional campaigns against our country from both inside and outside sources. Until we can achieve confirmation of our safety, this is policy. The assault directed against the President's family might have only been the tip of a far larger iceberg, director. Consequently, as our precautions dictate, we've acted to prepare for the government to continue functioning independent of Washington."  
  
"In straight English," Nathan Ramsey interrupted, glancing around the table at his teammates, "the President is persona non gratta until further notice."  
  
"Crude, but that is correct, Mr. Ramsey."  
  
"You have reason to believe that the Capitol could be the site of the next strike?" Talmadge tried.  
  
Shrugging, McGinty stated, "It stands to reason."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"The President's family was the target of the attack. Such an action – to our knowledge – has no precedent." Calmly, he added, "The Joint Chiefs felt it prudent to get anyone of national importance out of Washington."  
  
With a smirk, Parker couldn't remain quiet any longer. "So they invited us here instead."  
  
He silenced with a single glance from Talmadge.  
  
The colonel smiled. "Pardon the expression, but don't stand on ceremony when I'm in the room, Mr. Parker. I may have played the role of the diplomat. That doesn't make me any happier about our present situation than you are. If I've learned anything from my years of diplomacy in Washington, it's that every person – big or small, rich or poor, elected or not – should be encouraged to speak freely," McGinty responded.  
  
"It has nothing to do with speaking freely, colonel," Parker added, despite the warning from Talmadge. "It has everything to do with my friends being placed in danger."  
  
"I can appreciate your concern for your crew."  
  
Shaking his head, the chrononaut replied, "I'm not so sure that you can, colonel. From what Craig Donovan told us, the State Department has a file a few inches thick on Richard DeMarco, but he was allowed entrance to our country like he was going to a masquerade ball without a masquerade. He didn't even bother to conceal his identity. Apparently, he didn't need to. Donovan said the man – a known terrorist – wasn't even listed on any of our security watch lists. Can you tell me how that's possible? Can you explain how a man as dangerous as DeMarco gets a 'Get Out Of Jail Free' card without so much as a single concern from Homeland Security?"  
  
"Frank," Talmadge cut in, "this isn't the time to blame anyone."  
  
"Bradley, it's never a good time, is it?"  
  
"We don't even know that DeMarco has anything to do with this attack on Trace Hightower."  
  
"We don't know that he's innocent, either," Parker corrected. "Until we do, I think it's reasonable to see his arrival in Washington as much more than a coincidence!"  
  
"Mr. Parker, I am here," the military man countered. "If what I know of your reputation is correct, then I believe you'll appreciate it when I give you my word: I'm not leaving this city until any threat to this country has been neutralized, whether it has originated with Richard DeMarco or not. Our people – your teammates and my staff – will work together to solve this mystery, to stop whatever madman is behind it. To address the issue, I have people investigating how DeMarco's name was kept off our Border Watch Lists. I don't have an answer for you ... yet. As soon as I do, you and your team will be the first to know."  
  
"If what you know of my reputation is correct," Parker replied, "then you'll know that I'm not easily convinced by words. Action is what matters, colonel. Right now, I don't see that we're doing much."  
  
"Whoever drew first blood will not get away with this ... not on my watch." The colonel stiffened a bit where he stood. "While your nation appreciates your service, I won't stand idly by to see you or any of your team become a casualty."  
  
Chiming in, Michelson offered, "Colonel, there isn't a man or woman at this table who doubts your sincerity. Frank Parker doesn't speak for all of us."  
  
"Always a helpful reminder, Channing," Parker retorted.  
  
"What about Donovan?" Mentnor asked, leaning forward. "Where he is? He definitely should be here."  
  
The colonel's expression suddenly turned quizzical. Leaning forward, he pressed his hands on the table and said, "I'm so sorry. With all that has happened, it completely slipped my mind ... Craig Donovan has been hospitalized."  
  
Everyone in the crowd gasped.  
  
"What happened?" Talmadge demanded.  
  
"He was following up on a lead with the Washington D.C. police department," McGinty explained. "From what we know, DeMarco had registered at a motel just outside of the greater D.C. area. He used one of his known aliases, and that's how he was able to track him down. Donovan and a local police detective – Martin Guerrero – were planning to conduct a search of the property. As the evidence would lead us to believe, DeMarco left explosives with a door trigger on his room. Apparently, he had no intention on returning, nor did he want anyone to examine anything he could've possibly left behind."  
  
"But why?" Mentnor asked curiously. "We already knew that DeMarco was here. We already knew that he was in the United States. Why would he need to destroy a motel room of all things?"  
  
The colonel's face darkened for a moment. "I can only speculate, Dr. Mentnor, that DeMarco exercised a diversionary tactic to throw any investigation off track. Our intelligence experts tell me that DeMarco isn't the kind of man who would leave anything behind. He isn't the kind of terrorist who would risk any piece of information, however remote its importance may be. It's not in his profile. As a result, I can only conclude that destroying his motel room was a ruse ... a ploy to make every one of us look in the wrong direction." The man stood upright again and stepped thoughtfully to his right. "Also, you have to keep in mind that DeMarco is a terrorist. Bombing a hotel room – as senseless as that may seem to you and I – might achieve nothing more than to create a diversion to our normal reactions. However, such an act would also be picked up by the local news ... which it was. The story ran throughout the afternoon with analysts speculating that it was, in fact, a terrorist attack."  
  
"He's brought the war onto our soil," Talmadge thought aloud. "He's trying to frighten the average American citizen ... keep him guessing about where the next bomb could be or whether or not there will even be another one."  
  
"Precisely," McGinty agreed.  
  
"Colonel, what is his condition?" Olga asked, changing the subject back to the health of their teammate. "Is Craig all right?"  
  
"The last update I received from George Washington University Hospital showed that he was in fair condition," he replied. "He suffered a mild concussion as he was thrown clear by the blast. Detective Guerrero, unfortunately, died as a result of injuries resulting from the explosion." He paused, slowly shaking his head. "I'm sorry to have to break the news to you, but I do not have any more information than that."  
  
"He's one of our team, Travis," Talmadge said.  
  
"I understand, director."  
  
"We're not going anywhere without him."  
  
McGinty nodded. "Given his current whereabouts, you may not have any other choice."  
  
Rising, the director took charge of the meeting. "There's always a choice, and, thankfully, tactical personnel is a matter for me to decide." He turned to his crew. "All right, people. Listen up. We know what the situation is. We know what needs to be done from this point. We're breaking into three teams. Frank, you're presence is requested elsewhere ... namely, in the company of Larnord."  
  
"Bradley, can't that wait?" The chrononaut glanced around the table. "I'd rather make sure that Craig is all right. I can see this ... this Larnord after the hospital."  
  
"I'm afraid not, Frank," Talmadge continued. "When the Mallathorn call, you don't keep them waiting." He gestured toward the far end of the table. "Mr. Finkle and Dr. Welles will accompany you." Turning, he said, "Isaac, I'd like you and Nate to accompany Colonel McGinty back to the White House. We've some explaining to do, and you're the best man to do it. I want you to brief Chief of Staff Stoddard on every possible scientific reason to avoid any BackStep for the time being. I know what the President wants. He wants us to use the Sphere to bring his son-in-law back to him. Right now, I don't know that it's wise, but we do have seven days to come up with a better answer to that question." Glancing in the direction of his top staff, he added, "Olga, I want you and Channing with me."  
  
Michelson stood. "Where are we going?"  
  
Talmadge held out his hands. "Isn't it obvious?" he asked. "We've a fallen teammate to get back on his feet. The success of this mission might very well depend on what Craig Donovan has to contribute."  
  
END of Chapter 22 


	23. Chapter 23

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 23  
  
Five Days, Seventeen Hours, Forty-Nine Minutes  
  
AMIR: I have been awaiting your update.  
  
Glancing down at the computer screen, Arthur Pendley smiled. He knew that, sooner or later, 'Amir' would contact him. While the White House was doing everything possible to contain the story of Trace Hightower's death – not that it was extraordinarily difficult at this hour – there were certain circles – intelligence circles like those regularly monitored by the Elders – that never slept. Riding comfortably in his limousine, he switched off the television set – CVN had only broken word that the President had been secreted away from the White House and placed in hiding – and turned his attention to his laptop.  
  
PEND: You have my apology. The delay was regrettable but necessary.  
  
AMIR: What has happened?  
  
PEND: It is done.  
  
AMIR: I have seen nothing on the international news.  
  
PEND: You won't. Not for several hours.  
  
AMIR: But you said it is done?  
  
PEND: So far as I am concerned, it is done.  
  
AMIR: What does that mean?  
  
PEND: I have made modifications to the plan.  
  
AMIR: What does that mean?  
  
PEND: I have done what was appropriate.  
  
AMIR: Your have assassinated your President?  
  
PEND: No.  
  
AMIR: That was our agreement.  
  
PEND: As I have done in the past, I altered the agreement.  
  
AMIR: You have been paid.  
  
PEND: I will return your money when it is convenient.  
  
AMIR: I do not want the money back.  
  
PEND: Then I will thank you for your contribution to my continuing political legacy.  
  
AMIR: Arthur, I want your President dead.  
  
PEND: His death is unnecessary.  
  
AMIR: That is not for you to decide. I want to send a message to your people. I have paid you to see that message delivered.  
  
PEND: It is unnecessary.  
  
AMIR: I demand an explanation.  
  
PEND: I have done better than kill the President.  
  
AMIR: What does that mean?  
  
PEND: I have assassinated a member of the President's family.  
  
There was a long pause before the typed response appeared on his screen. The bold white letters glared back at him from the dark background.  
  
AMIR: That was not our agreement.  
  
PEND: I have already said that I have altered the agreement.  
  
AMIR: Why did you do this?  
  
PEND: Campbell may be of use to us yet.  
  
AMIR: I do not understand this.  
  
PEND: It is a simple strategy. The wrong dead man has no value. The right dead man – Hightower – may change the tide of history for you, my friend, not just the tide of war.  
  
AMIR: THIS WAS NOT OUR AGREEMENT.  
  
PEND: I have already addressed that.  
  
AMIR: The Elders will be disappointed.  
  
PEND: I do not fear the Elders.  
  
AMIR: You will.  
  
Momentarily, the senator glanced out the car window at the passing night scene. Houses were black, the residents gone to bed, unaware of the turmoil their government was now facing. In the morning, in a matter of a few hours, they would wake up, and they would turn on the news, and they would find that the world they knew before slumbering into their own private little dreamlands existed no more. They would learn that anyone, anywhere, any time could fall victim to a terrorist attack, and, only then, would Pendley feel completely satisified with what he had done.  
  
PEND: You are saying that because you fear them. The Elders have made you a puppet, Amir. I will not become one for them. I have every intention of building my own personal new world order. I would very much like you to be a part of it, but I am finished with the Elders. Their thinking is too small. It has been too small for many years, and I am through with it.  
  
AMIR: You should fear the Elders.  
  
PEND: You can fear them, Amir. I am too busy taking over the world.  
  
AMIR: Who did you kill?  
  
PEND: Trace Hightower.  
  
AMIR: How did you do this?  
  
PEND: That is classified information.  
  
AMIR: Is the President aware?  
  
PEND: He is.  
  
AMIR: You delivered the message personally?  
  
PEND: In a manner of speaking, yes.  
  
AMIR: What is his response?  
  
Dismissive, Pendley glanced at his watch. He had grown wearing of the exchange. All he wanted to do was return to the Heston, return to his subterranean hideaway, and sleep for a few hours before the next step – and he trusted there would be a next step – became necessary.  
  
PEND: I gave the President a few hours to grieve and to formulate a response.  
  
AMIR: The Elders will not be happy.  
  
He pursed his lips tightly. He had heard enough of the Elders. The group had exhausted their usefulness years ago, so far as he were concerned, and he didn't understand Amir's undying loyalty to them.  
  
PEND: You can tell the Elders that I have – in my possession – the addresses to members of their families as well.  
  
AMIR: That is a threat?  
  
PEND: I believe it is.  
  
AMIR: They will respond in force.  
  
PEND: Then their families will die.  
  
AMIR: You cannot do this.  
  
PEND: The game is already in motion.  
  
AMIR: You cannot do this. It is a mistake.  
  
PEND: I do not answer to you, Amir. I do not answer to the Elders. I am only concerned about the success of Project Kupher. That is all that matters.  
  
AMIR: The Elders will find you, Arthur.  
  
PEND: Let them try.  
  
AMIR: They have eyes everywhere.  
  
PEND: I do not doubt it.  
  
AMIR: They will be very unhappy.  
  
PEND: I leave that for you to handle.  
  
AMIR: What shall I tell them?  
  
He sighed heavily.  
  
PEND: Tell them that you will contact me in six hours. I will have the President's answer by that time. You can assure them that all is well.  
  
AMIR: This is a dangerous game you are playing, my friend.  
  
PEND: It has only just begun.  
  
END of Chapter 23 


	24. Chapter 24

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 24  
  
Five Days, Seventeen Hours, Thirty-Seven Minutes  
  
"Dammit!" Talmadge swore.  
  
"What?" Michelson asked, turning to the director. "What is it?"  
  
"The secret is out," Talmadge announced, powering down his wireless phone and throwing it onto the limousine's opposite seat. It bounced up to the car's ceiling and dropped onto the floor, where the director proceeded to pound it into crunchy pieces across the thin shag carpet.  
  
"What do you mean? What secret?"  
  
"The worst possible one we share right now," the director stated, finished with his tirade. "CVN. They just broke the news of the President being moved to an undisclosed location."  
  
"Oh, no," Olga moaned.  
  
"So much for the White House keeping a lid on things," he muttered.  
  
"It was bound to break sooner or later, Bradley."  
  
"Yes," he agreed, "but once this gets airplay in the morning, the local authorities are going to have a mess on their hands in trying to keep the peace."  
  
"How could that happen so quickly?" she asked.  
  
"Quickly?" Michelson asked, raising an eyebrow. "Hell, I'm surprised it's lasted this long."  
  
His two companions turned to him, and he shook his head. "Someone – you can bet it was some low level White House staffer – probably offered some juicy off-the-record comment."  
  
Talmadge gritted his teeth, refraining from biting his bottom lip. "You're probably right."  
  
"You can bet I am," Michelson added. "Once the reporter found out what he was sitting on, he knew his shot for a Pulitzer was too good to believe. A scoop like this? The terror alert elevated? All interstate travel halted until further notice? The President placed into protective custody? There's no way an editor would let any good reporter sit on that for much longer than thirty seconds."  
  
"You're probably right," the director agreed, peering through the car's tinted window at the approaching hospital lights. "In any event, our only advantage is the late hour." Pointing to the glass, he said, "Let's get in here and found out how Donovan is doing. Assuming his condition has improved, I'll see to his release into our custody. Olga, you'll have to monitor his condition closely. Whatever room we had to work with just went down the drain with the CVN news report, so let's play each and every move as safe as we possibly can. Understood?"  
  
The car screeched to a halt in front of the hospital. Throwing open the door, Michelson stepped out. He reached back, giving Olga his hand, and helped her out of the limo's backseat. Talmadge climbed out the other side, and he knocked on the driver's side window. Once it was lowered, he told the man to wait for them to come back down. The man agreed, and he pulled the car ahead into the nearest parking spot.  
  
"Olga," Michelson began, "tell me about this Craig Donovan."  
  
"You've met him."  
  
"Yes, I've met him," he agreed, "but he's been on a leave of absence from the Program since not long after I came on board."  
  
She nodded. "Donovan is the best field agent BackStep could possibly hope for."  
  
Michelson sniffed. "Does Parker like him?"  
  
"Of course. They're the best of friends."  
  
"Now ... that I didn't need to hear."  
  
Inside, the hallway adjacent to the Emergency Room was quiet. A few folks – two older men and one young woman – sat in the waiting area. The old men were playing a hand of poker, Talmadge guessed, as he walked past them. The woman was thumbing through a crumbled magazine. He marched past, Olga and Michelson following his stride wake, and he neared the desk. A young-looking nurse – she appeared far too young to be working a graveyard shift – poked her head up at the window. She nodded when the director asked about Craig Donovan, explaining that he was in a private room – down the hall – beyond the policemen.  
  
"The policemen?" Talmadge asked. "I don't understand. Is Craig under armed guard?"  
  
"Oh, no, sir," the nurse replied. "His boss from the NSA came by earlier in the evening to check up on him, but Mr. Donovan's recovering very nicely." She tilted her head. "The police have been here for awhile. They've been questioning a woman. I believe she's a talent scout or agency manager or some such thing. Apparently, one of her employees was the victim of a drive-by shooting earlier tonight."  
  
"Oh, my God." Olga winced. 'So much crime,' she thought, 'for one of America's most prominent cities.'  
  
"Thank you very much," the director said. Nodding in the director she had indicated, he started walking briskly down the corridor.  
  
Michelson glanced up the hall. There were a few gurneys parked solidly against the walls, and, beyond them, he noticed two men passing the far waiting area. Casually, the men glanced into the room as they walked past, and, instead of stopping, they kept moving – at a leisurely pace – in Michelson's direction. They were both smartly dressed – black shirts, black slacks, dark shoes – and one of them wore a thick black leather jacket. If he didn't know better, Michelson would've guessed the lump under the man's coat beneath his left shoulder indicated a concealed weapon. Was he another police officer? One in plain clothes following up on the shooting report? He didn't know, but it would make sense.  
  
As they neared one another in the corridor, Michelson glanced over, taking a quick study of their faces. The first man – the younger of the two – smiled. He had a youthful expression of concern about him despite his fixed eyes and relaxed jaw. The second man ... the second man had a familiarity about him. He, too, smiled over at Michelson, as they passed one another, and the chrononaut nodded back to him. However, in his mind, he ran the features over and over. Dark hair. Dark complexion. Elegent cheekbones, appearing to almost indicate royalty. In his smile, Channing thought he saw a bit of mirth – not a playful expression, but one of mischief and equally daring. Slowly lowering his head, the chrononaut turned the face over and over in his mind. It had an odd familiarity to it, but he couldn't quite ...  
  
He stopped in his tracks.  
  
Pivoting, he now studied the backs of the men who were walking away. Both of them planted firm footsteps on the tile floor. Their gate was confidence, assured. They passed the nurse's station, now about fifty feet away, when Michelson cried out, "Richard DeMarco!"  
  
The men stopped as the hospital corridor was overcome with complete silence.  
  
In that singular moment, Channing Michelson knew all hell was about to break loose.  
  
END of Chapter 24 


	25. Chapter 25

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 25  
  
At the same time   
  
"Does anyone have any idea of where we the hell we are?" Parker asked.  
  
Rising from the bench, Dr. Nina Welles craned her head toward the thick plate glass window mounted in the side of the van. Squinting, she tried to see anything beyond the tint, but, unfortunately, she could make out very little.  
  
"It looks like we're passing a large building, Frank," she finally announced, hoping that her scant details would provide him some relief. "It's dark outside, so it's very difficult to say for certain, but ... wait a minute ... yes, those are definitely lights, and they look to be attached to a very large building. Massive."  
  
Leaning forward, Ebdon Finkle placed a hand on Parker's arm. "You're not getting nervous, are you?"  
  
"Nervous?" Parker cocked his head at the old man. "I'm on my way to meeting some kind of alien lifeform with the ability to manipulate time from across the far side of the universe. I would imagine that – with the blink of one of his big eyes – he could probably eliminate me from this timeline, leaving you, Nina, and the others to solve this ... conundrum ... all by yourselves." He shrugged. "What do I have to be nervous about?"  
  
"That's what I thought," Ebdon replied. He sat back on his bench in the rear of the transport van. "If we were at my diner, I'd fix you up something to eat. Something that would take your mind off of all of this business. Maybe my Southwestern Chowder. A good bowl of that along with some soup crackers, and you'd be singing a different tune."  
  
Smiling, the chrononaut asked, "Can I get a beer with that?"  
  
The old man raised his eyebrows. "Well, it's on the menu."  
  
"Then, Ebdon, I hope I survive this long enough to sample your Southwestern Chowder."  
  
Suddenly, the vehicle stopped. The three of them lurched a bit where they were. Reaching out, Parker wrapped an arm around the doctor's waist to keep her from crashing forward.  
  
"Doc," he said, "something tells me we've arrived."  
  
After a moment, the rear doors opened. The armed guards stepped back, and a short blonde man dressed in a dark navy suit wearing a red-and- white striped tie marched up to the opening. Smiling, he announced, "Mr. Parker! Since we heard of your arrival, we've been waiting for the chance to finally meet you!"  
  
Rising with the help of his two fellow passengers, Parker said, "When you do what I do, it's always good to hear that you're welcome when you arrive."  
  
"I can only imagine," the man enthusiastically replied. Extending his hand, he added, "My name is David Jennings. I'll be your escort to see Larnord."  
  
"Hello, Dave," the chrononaut replied, struggling to step out of the cramped van. "You can call me Frank." With a thumb over his shoulder, he said, "I hope you've set the table for three, because I'm not allowed out unless I have an escort. This is Ebdon Finkle, and this is Dr. Nina Welles."  
  
"It's wonderful to meet all of you," Jennings remarked. "If you'll follow me, then I'll take you inside."  
  
"Where exactly are we?" Parker interrupted.  
  
Smiling, the man explained, "You're at the Pentagon, Mr. Parker ... only the safest place on the planet could serve as the appropriate home to the most welcome of visitors. He'll be excited to know that you've arrived. He's heard so much about you. To be perfectly honest, he's quite possible your biggest fan!"  
  
Glancing over his shoulder at Ebdon, Parker whispered, "Is this guy serious?"  
  
They passed through several thick steel doors – each requiring a security clearance punched into a blinking keypad by Jennings – and stepped into a massive elevator. The armed escort stopped, with Jennings explanation that this point was as far as they were allowed to go, leaving Parker, Ebdon, Nina, and their immensely happy tour guide alone. The man touched the button for the lowest level – Sub 19 – and, doors closing, they all felt the elevator begin its descent.  
  
"Sub 19?" Parker asked. "How far down is that, if you don't mind my asking?"  
  
"It's the equivalent of thirty stories underground," Jennings replied. "It's approximately one-half mile beneath the surface of Washington, D.C."  
  
"Really? Why so deep?"  
  
Smiling, the man turned to the group. "You have to understand that Larnord is, arguably, the United States most prized possession."  
  
"More important than the Liberty Bell?" Parker quipped.  
  
"If the Liberty Bell had the ability to transcend time and space," he began, "then there is no possible way the government would allow it to remain on display in Philadelphia, Mr. Parker."  
  
"The Liberty Bell is a national treasure," Ebdon interjected. "This – what did you call him? Larnord? He's not even from our world."  
  
"Precisely the need for such heightened security," Jennings explained. "With his unique abilities, we couldn't risk having him fall into the hands of another nation or a terrorist group. Life, as we know it, would cease to exist."  
  
"Life, as we know it, could cease to exist without the help of Larnord, Dave," Parker corrected. "All some terrorist group needs is to get their hands on the launch codes for some ICBM with a 50 megaton nuclear warhead, and you can kiss this great land goodbye. It has nothing to do with time and space. It has everything to do with defending our national interests." He glanced at the man. "Is Larnord prepared to serve our country in that capacity?"  
  
"I'm sorry," the man offered, "but I'm not following you."  
  
"My point, Dave, is that I should be out there with the BackStep team. In case you haven't heard, there's a terrorist loose in your city, and apparently he's none too happy with these United States right now. He's already killed one police detective. He's hurt a very good friend of mine. There's a very good chance that he could be behind an attack on the President's family. No doubt, if he has like any other textbook terrorist I've crossed paths with, he isn't finished. But where am I?" He shook his head. "I'm on an elevator traveling one-half mile underground for the sole purpose of shaking hands with a being from another world."  
  
Parker felt Dr. Welles jab at his backside, encouraging him to be quiet.  
  
"Mr. Parker," Jennings tried, "I give you my word, sir: you'll want to hear what Larnord has to say."  
  
"Will I?"  
  
Again, he felt the good doctor's hand at his ribs.  
  
Leaning close, Jennings offered, "The fate of your current mission depends on it."  
  
Sarcastically, Parker snapped, "If I had a nickel for every time I'd heard that before ..."  
  
He didn't get to finish. Ebdon Finkle slapped him alongside of his containment helmet.  
  
Finally, the elevator doors whisked open, revealing a long dark steel- girded hallway. They marched out of the elevator, walking past the two armed guards, and Parker found he had to keep a brisk pace in order to stay in stride with the overly enthusiastic Jennings. They passed several heavily shielded doorways until they reached the end of the hallway. There stood a massive red door with no markings on it. Fumbling in his coat pocket, Jennings produced a key card which he placed into the slot on the control pad beside the door. Immediately, an aluminum plate lifted away from the pad, revealing two rows of buttons – the top one with illuminated letters and the bottom with numbers. The man punched in a long series, and Parker heard the gasp of hydraulic locks releasing. A fine mist erupted from the door's lining, and, slowly, the metal plate slide upward, disappearing into the way.  
  
Inside, a dozen technicians dressed in black laboratory coats flitted between several control consoles. They busily monitored all of the equipment, only giving their new guests a momentary glance.  
  
"Welcome to Larnord's domain," Jennings announced.  
  
Parker entered the room first. He glanced around at the men and women manning the work-stations, and he asked, "What's all of this?"  
  
"Larnord desires a very specific environment for his living space."  
  
"Desires?"  
  
"Yes," answered Jennings.  
  
"Don't you mean ... requires?"  
  
After considering the question, the man shook his head. "No. The Mallathorn is an oxygen-breather, Mr. Parker. If necessary, he could survive on the land up above us. He chooses to live otherwise."  
  
"How's that?"  
  
"He prefers to keep his quarters at a very specific fifty degrees Fahrenheit," the man explained. "Also, he's asked for a very specific mix of oxygen and a gas not previously known to Earth. I believe he's called it Anthyllium." He waved a hand. "Don't worry. It's completely harmless to you and I. From what I understand, it simply aids in his digestion of Earth food."  
  
"What's wrong with Earth food?" Ebdon asked.  
  
Jennings smiled. "Oh, nothing at all! The Mallathorn loves most Earth food! He considers most anything a delicacy!" Softly, he added, "Apparently, his people have been raised to eat a rather generic tasting gelatinous compound – a nutrient paste, if you will – so his body uses the Anthyllium as a digestive aid."  
  
Parker noticed a large glass port on the far wall. Next to it, he saw another thick red door with another keypad.  
  
"I assume that's where I'm headed?"  
  
"That's correct," Jennings replied. "The Mallathorn is waiting."  
  
"The Mallathorn?" Parker asked. "What's that all about?"  
  
"It's the name of his people," he said. "They are the Mallathorn. I guess that it's just become easier for us to call him by that name instead of Larnord. He uses it frequently in conversation, so it's ... well ... I guess you could say that it's just kind of stuck on us."  
  
Slowly, Parker nodded.  
  
"If you say so, Dave," he said. Gesturing, he added, "Okay, people, let's get this meeting of the intergalactic minds over with. I've got work to do."  
  
"Mr. Parker?"  
  
The chrononaut turned back to the tour guide.  
  
"Yes, Dave?"  
  
Nervously, the blonde man folded his hand in front of him. "I'm afraid ... I'm afraid that your colleagues will have to remain out here ... with the technical staff."  
  
Turning, Parker nearly pressed his faceplate to the young man's forehead. "Why's that? Is the Mallathorn unwilling to take a few more callers, or does he simply not have enough chairs?"  
  
Bobbing his head, Jennings made a confused expression. "The Mallathorn wishes to see you personally ... outside of the containment suit."  
  
"But that'll kill him ... won't it?"  
  
The man shook his head. "Your temporal condition – the fact of your contamination – poses no risk to Larnord whatsoever."  
  
Raising an eyebrow, the chrononaut turned to glass at the large red door. "Is that so?"  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
Facing his friends, Parker rolled his eyes. "All right, kids. We're here ... but I guess the attractions are closed."  
  
Nina smiled. "Go on, Frank. Larnord wants to see you. We'll be fine out here. Just – if he asks – make sure you put in a good word for us."  
  
"As far as I'm concerned," Ebdon offered, "I have enough problems relating to people of this world. If E.T. doesn't want to see me, then I don't want to see him."  
  
The chrononaut nodded. "All right. Let me go pay my respects. The sooner I get this over with, then sooner we can get back to work."  
  
"We'll be all right," Nina added. "Go and say hello to your fan."  
  
Resigned, Parker turned and placed a hand on Jennings' shoulder. "All right, Dave," he announced. "Lead the way. And not so fast this time, okay? I'm wearing a ninety-pound suit, for God's sake!"  
  
END of Chapter 25 


	26. Chapter 26

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 26  
  
Five Days, Seventeen Hours, Thirty-Two Minutes  
  
BLAM!  
  
Michelson swore under his breath, fumbling to yank his Walther from under his jacket in time to parry DeMarco's whirl. The terrorist – when he faced him – had already pulled his gun, and the chrononaut immediately felt his heart sink as he had lost the advantage of surprise. Time slowed down as he watched the gun spark brilliantly from its black muzzle, propelling the lead bullet into the open space that separated them down the long hospital corridor. DeMarco fired at him, and, instinctively, Michelson released all weight from his left side, falling in that direction, as he finally cleared his jacket and raised his pistol into the air.  
  
"Get down!" he cried. "Get down!"  
  
BLAM! BLAM!  
  
He fired his retort, but DeMarco's companion now had his pistol out, aiming in his direction. It would only be a matter of milliseconds before another barrage of fiery lead tore through the air, a second volley much better targeted than the first, and Michelson knew that – unless circumstances changed dramatically in that infinitesimally small amount of time – Olga and Bradley would be victims.  
  
Hitting the floor, he reached forward, his hand landing on the rung beneath a hospital gurney. Quickly, he grasped the bed's manual brake lever, jerked it upward, and shoved. The wheels squealed as the mobile cot went sailing down the hallway, and the distraction gave Olga the time to fully realize what was happening – that they were under lethal attack – and she, too, dropped to the floor behind Michelson.  
  
BLAM! BLAM!  
  
As luck would have it, DeMarco's companion was unable to draw as clean a bead on his targets as Michelson expected. Instead, the enemy's bullets tore into the wheeling hospital bed, ripping into the slim mattress with a force that lifted the bed off its wheels and sent it teetering into the wall. It clanked loudly into the corridor's handrail, and it smashed noisily to the grey marble floor.  
  
To his delight, Michelson glanced up and found that his boss – the ever unpredictable Bradley Talmadge – had pulled his silver Sig Sauer P228 from his coat and had taken aim at their opponents.  
  
"Richard DeMarco!" the director cried. "By order of the NSA, I order you to stop right where you are!"

* * *

His head jerking upright in suit with his taut body, a startled Craig Donovan recognized the crack of gunfire when he heard it. His reflexes twitched, and he opened his eyes wide to take in his surroundings. The nurse standing at his bedside, checking his vitals, glared with an open, wordless mouth at him.  
  
"Get down!" he told her, quickly throwing off the covers ... and quietly thanking whatever higher power there was in this crazy universe that the hospital staff had dressed him in pajama bottoms and not one of those dimensionless, unflattering gowns.  
  
He leapt out of the bed, ready for anything. Dashing to the room's only closet, he threw open the door, found his property, brushed the short stack of clothing aside, and grabbed his nine millimeter Beretta. Stopping only to check that the clip was full, he broke for the hallway outside.

* * *

BLAM!  
  
Ignoring the shot fired at him, Talmadge did the unthinkable ... he took a step forward, releasing the safety on his pistol, and returned the favor.  
  
Immediately, the two men separated – DeMarco dropping to one side of the hallway and his partner to the other – as the bullet tore harmlessly through the open space, piercing the Emergency Room's single sliding glass door, and shattered the tempered glass. The shards erupted outward, pouring to the concrete in a downfall of violent, sparkling rain. An alarm sounded – a high-pitched whine – and the director knew that, within a minute, hospital security guards would be rushing into a firefight the likes of which they couldn't contain ... unless he stopped it before it grew further out of control.  
  
Talmadge wasn't finished.  
  
To Michelson's surprise, the director brazenly took another two steps forward, crossing the width of the corridor to take up a defensive position in front of Olga and him. Then, he fired two more shots at DeMarco, but both men ducked closer to the wall, concealed barely out of his sight behind the frame of an open doorway that, under dire circumstances like fire or natural catastrophe, separated the Emergency Room from the remainder of the hospital.  
  
"That's enough!"  
  
Confused, the chrononaut rolled over – carefully lifting his weight so as not to injure his unarmed lover, Olga, lying on the floor beside him – and glanced in the direction of the voice. Reacting, he brought his Walther up in front of him. There, emerging from the waiting area, he found two police officers, and he stared into their fixed expressions. Undoubtedly, these were the two men that the duty nurse had explained were here questioning a woman about a drive-by shooting – with the regulation pistols drawn. One of them aimed at him, and the other pointed his loaded weapon at Talmadge.  
  
"Drop those guns!" the officer ordered.  
  
Michelson knew the time of the lives had been reduced to fractions of fractions of a millisecond, and he had to act now.  
  
"Don't shoot!" he exclaimed, taking one hand of his Walther and holding it up in the universal sign of surrender. "We're with the NSA! We're after those two men!"  
  
Who he was and the agency he served didn't matter. It never did in a firefight. That was just the nature of police training.  
  
"I said drop those guns ... now!" the officer insisted.  
  
"I said we're with the NSA!"  
  
"I don't care if you're with Moses ..."  
  
Suddenly, an unshirted blur of a man rammed into the police officers, and the two men hit the wall hard, their guns jarred loose. Michelson recognized Craig Donovan knocking the two civil servants down to the ground hard with a single wisp of a perfectly executed leg sweep.  
  
Glancing up, Olga cried out, "Craig!"  
  
"Stay down!" he ordered, brandishing his own weapon. "Everyone just stay down!"  
  
Donovan glanced up the hallway, and he saw the unthinkable, the unimaginable: he found the face of the mystery man from the video footage of the storage facility security camera. He saw those eyes – those dark eyes saturated with pure, unadulterated hatred – and he raised his Beretta as he charged down the hallway.  
  
"DeMarco!" he screamed, leaping over the poised Michelson. "You're mine! You're mine!"  
  
Once he landed on the ground, he ran, his legs pumping, his finger pulling methodically at the trigger on his Beretta, firing decisively in the direction of the terrorist and his partner. His shots echoed in an odd cacophony throughout the narrow corridor.  
  
When he reached Talmadge, the two of them joined forces, running in tandem toward DeMarco and his companion, their guns barking together in the once silent building.

* * *

Quickly, DeMarco glanced across at Matthew.  
  
To the young man's right, he saw the 'close' button for the doors ahead of them. He nodded at it, and Matthew followed.  
  
Reaching out, Matthew slapped the button hard, and the doors – now activated – started to swing shut.

* * *

"No!" Donovan swore, stopping in his tracks and aiming at the terrorist. "No!"  
  
He fired.  
  
BLAM!  
  
The bullet grazed the solid metal of the mechanized door, sparking as it viciously ricocheted into the unblemished white wall.  
  
"Dammit!" he shouted.  
  
Through the glass port in the doors, he watched as the two men made their escape through the Emergency Room arch.  
  
Quickly, he rushed the doors, banging on them, but they wouldn't budge. They were security doors, designed for the very purpose of protecting those inside the hospital, and they could only be opened from the nurses' station.  
  
"Open these doors!" he shouted, hoping the woman on duty could hear him. "Open these damn doors!"  
  
He heard the hydraulic kiss of the doors activated, and, leaning with all his weight, he threw the doors wide, tearing past the barrier and rushing toward the hospital's exit. Talmadge stayed at his heels, and, together, they broke out of the building into the night ... only to see the taillights of a black sedan as the car pulled quickly under the cover of night.  
  
"The license plate?" the director asked. "Did you make out the license plate?"  
  
Suddenly, Donovan found his head spinning. His surroundings started to tip and twirl as the sudden exertion of energy caught up with him. The doctors – his doctor – had told him that he needed his rest as a result of the injuries suffered from the explosion that had almost taken his life and had killed his dear friend. He teetered a bit, his vision darkening, threatening to slip into the netherland of unconsciousness. He dropped his gun and started to fall ... when he felt the welcome cradle of hands underneath his shoulders.  
  
"Sonuvabitch," he swore.  
  
"It's all right," Talmadge said. "It's all right, Craig. I've got you."  
  
Fighting back the temptation to slip into an altered state of consciousness, Donovan glanced up into the smiling eyes of his former boss.  
  
"It's good ..." he tried, his voice trailing off.  
  
"What's good, Craig?"  
  
"It's good ... to see a friendly face," he said, and then he fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

"Are you all right?" Michelson asked, holstering his Walther and climbing to his feet. He went to Olga's side and reached down for her, gently taking her arm and helping her to her feet.  
  
"I'm fine," she said. "It's just ... well, it's been a very long time since I've been in the middle of a World War ... and I'd forgotten what it's like."  
  
Cautiously, he smiled at her. "You shouldn't concern yourself with those things."  
  
She glanced up at him. "It's our job."  
  
"No," he told her, easily straightening her coat as it had slouched off of her shoulders in the fracas. "Your job is saving lives. Mine? Well ... sometimes I'm not so lucky."  
  
They stared into one another's eyes, experiencing a moment of attraction – a spark of intimacy in a quickly crowding corridor. The police climbed to their feet, and they collected their fallen firearms. Three hospital security guards suddenly marched down the corridor, hurrying past the police officers and heading for the Emergency Room archway. Several nurses stepped out of their respective rooms, and even a patient or two wandered near the edge of their open doorways, studying the hallway, curious as to what could possibly have gone so horribly wrong in a hospital, of all places?  
  
"Hello," a woman's voice said.  
  
Brought back into the here and now, Olga shook her head and turned. A woman with long beautiful hair stepped out of the waiting room, past the police officers, and stood alongside the couple.  
  
"Everything's all right," Michelson assured the woman. "There's no need for panic."  
  
"No," Indiri Farris replied. "I'm not ... I'm not panicking ... I was just curious ... did I hear you right? Were you just firing at ... were you just firing at Richard DeMarco?"  
  
END of Chapter 26


	27. Chapter 27

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 27  
  
Five Days, Seventeen Hours, Twenty-Two Minutes  
  
McGinty made good on his promise: he had Mentnor and Ramsey delivered to the White House, cleared by security, and waiting in the Briefing Room in record time. At the table, Ramsey relaxed, slowly rifling through the staff of satellite photographs that sat tucked into a manila folder – complete with the Presidential seal – on the table. Mentnor, on the other hand, wandered restlessly from window to window, glancing out into the dark skies and somber buildings. His mood had grown intense, but only one who knew him well – like Nathan Ramsey – would see it.  
  
"This isn't right," the scientist finally said.  
  
"What isn't right, Isaac?"  
  
He turned and crossed to the table. "Nathan, what can we do here?" He held up his hands. "There's a madman running on the loose out there, and ... here we sit ... unable to do anything about it."  
  
Ramsey smiled. "Relax, Isaac," he cautioned the older man. "Each of us has a role to play in this game of DeMarco's, and this is the role Bradley chose for you and me." He nodded. "The Chief of Staff just wants a briefing ... a rundown of the facts we know. We'll be out of here soon enough."  
  
The doors opened, and Secret Service Agent Leonard Thomkins entered the room.  
  
Glancing up from the pile of photos, Ramsey exclaimed, "Well, I'll be! If it isn't Match Thomkins!" Rising, he extended his hand, and the two men, smiling at one another, shook hands vigorously. "I had heard that you were awarded Castle Detail," the man continued, "but I never imagined I'd see you out and about on a day like today, Match."  
  
The agent shrugged. "What's a boy to do, Nate?"  
  
"In the Castle?" Ramsey glanced around, ensuring their privacy. "I would think that there would be plenty more on your plate than chatting it up with a couple of Black Budget lowlifes like myself and Isaac." Remembering his manners, the man gestured at his colleague. "Match, this is Dr. Isaac Mentnor. He's here to brief Stoddard on this Parallelogram Theory of his."  
  
Courteously, the agent rounded the table and shook hands with Mentnor.  
  
"It's a pleasure to meet you ... Match?"  
  
Chuckling, the agent said, "Don't let it alarm you, Dr. Mentnor. It's a nickname that's been with me for far too many years."  
  
Pointing, Ramsey countered, "Don't let him fool you, Isaac. This guy is dynamite. He's one of the best men to work the Secret Service. You tick him off, and you've lit a fire ... hence the name 'Match.'"  
  
Frowning, Thomkins tried, "I really hoped I would – one day – outgrow that reputation, Nate."  
  
"Not in a million years," the director of BackStep Security argued. "As a matter of fact, I'd put up two hundred dollars on a bet that – before this whole sad affair is done and over – you'll have the chance to prove the reputation is right as rain."  
  
The agent considered the wager for a long moment. "Two hundred dollars?"  
  
Ramsey nodded.  
  
"On your salary, that's the best you can do?"  
  
Belligerent, the director crossed his arms. "Can you do better?"  
  
Fishing into his pant pocket, the agent pulled out a wad of bills held together by a thick silver money clip christened with an American bald eagle. "I can do five hundred ... if that's not too steep for your budget."  
  
The director smiled. "Done!"  
  
The doors opened again, and Thomkins shoved the money back into his pocket as Chief of State Ethan Stoddard and his assistant, Chloe Vandemark, entered the room. Stoddard, still wearing his suit coat, had removed his tie, the top collar of his shirt opened. Vandemark wore a flattering black dress suit with a flaming red blouse. The two approached the table, and they both were expressions of seriousness.  
  
"Dr. Mentnor?" Stoddard asked.  
  
Quickly, the scientist stepped around the secret service agent and met the man. "I'm Isaac Mentnor, Mr. Stoddard." Immediately, they shook hands. "Bradley Talmadge, director of the BackStep Program, asked me to meet with you."  
  
"Yes, thank you," the man replied. Gesturing across the table at the young lady, he explained, "This is Chloe Vandemark. She works for me. She'll be sitting in for this meeting." Holding his hands out to his side, he concluded, "Shall we get started?"

* * *

"... so you see, Mr. Stoddard," Mentnor said, now somewhat weary of explaining the complexities of time travel to those who weren't inclined to understand the science, "I can only offer you speculation as to what could possibly happen to our world – this timeline – if the parallelogram were to collapse – were to temporally implode, if you will. One version of reality would cease to exist, literally merging with the other. Quite possibly, everything we've come to know in our existence – the people we know, the events that have shaped our world – may completely disappear in favor of a stronger history ... one in which even you may not exist." He shrugged. "There's ... well, there's simply no way to know."  
  
The group gathered at the conference room table had listened to the man's impassioned speech for several minutes.  
  
"Doctor?" Chloe tried, leaning forward. "May I ask you a few questions?"  
  
Professionally, Mentnor nodded. "Of course, Miss Vandemark."  
  
"You said that Frank Parker – or should I say this alternate Frank Parker – was never intended to exist in our timeline, and that is the reason he poses the risk of temporal contamination – the risk of a violent death – to anyone he meets?"  
  
"Without the protection of his containment suit," the scientist began, "the answer is yes. If Frank were allowed to roam freely about – without the protection of the suit provided by the Centers for Disease Control – then the results would be ... well ... catastrophic."  
  
"I know this can only be answered by speculation on your part, doctor," she continued, relaxing in her chair next to the Chief of Staff, "but can the same be said of any person from our timeline were he to cross into the timeline normally occupied by Frank Parker?"  
  
"I'm not certain I understand," Mentnor answered.  
  
"Does it work both ways?" she tried again. "This Frank Parker poses a great risk to our people. Could one of our people pose as great a risk were he to enter Frank Parker's timeline?"  
  
Chewing his lower lip, the scientist considered the idea for a few seconds. He hadn't thought about such a possibility. He didn't know how it would be possible for anyone from this world – from his world – to cross temporally over into Parker's.  
  
"My best educated guess would be yes," he concluded. "Keep in mind, Miss Vandemark, that we don't know all there is to know about temporal contamination. We can only make assumptions based upon our exposure to crossover chrononauts, and those events have unfortunately not been given ample study. However, whatever contaminant that exists ... it would stand to reason that, yes, it would affect both worlds."  
  
"So," she continued, clearly fascinated with the subject, "were we unable to stop the collapse of this parallelogram – as you call it – a situation would exist that could possibly result in the total extinction of mankind?"  
  
Mentnor raised an eyebrow. "Again, Miss Vandemark, I'm not certain that I understand what you're saying."  
  
"The other timeline," she tried. "Those people – like Frank Parker – can infect us. If our people could infect them, then there are two possibilities: either – due to the unique nature of exposure of these temporal elements – the infection cancels itself out completely ... or both universes – rather, the people in both universes – would suffer contamination and, as a result, extinction of the human race as we know it results."  
  
The scientist brought a finger to his lips as he considered the possibility. "Well ... yes ... but, keep in mind, there exists no data for any of us to offer any other alternative conclusion. You and I – we can only offer speculation." With a smile, he added, "Let's just hope that the evidence never presents itself for fast study."  
  
Stoddard sighed heavily. "And is that why Director Talmadge countermanded the President's call for an immediate BackStep to end this series of events?"  
  
The room was ominously quiet during the pause. Eventually, Mentnor explained: "I believe that what Bradley's chief concern is centers on the unknown. You see, with one Sphere traveling through time to alter the course of events, we've come to accept the risks. We know, to a certain degree, what possibilities we will be facing once the Sphere leaves the present and travels into the past. However, the fabric of our existence could still be very fragile. There is – as we've been discussing – no means to know what a second BackStep in under seven days could do to our universe. It may cause it to collapse. The Sphere may not make the jump. Or ... another possibility is that, as Frank Parker's Sphere crossed into our continuum, it could very well be that our Sphere might cross into Frank Parker's timeline, serving us no possible good." He shrugged. "I'm sorry that I can't provide a more definitive answer, but I have to concur with Bradley. The risks far outweigh any theoretical advantage."  
  
"But ... it's only theoretical?" Chloe asked.  
  
"Yes."  
  
Curiously, she glanced over at her boss. His expression was grim.  
  
"Gentlemen," he announced, clearing his throat, "the President is demanding this second BackStep."  
  
Mentnor couldn't believe what he was hearing. "But, Mr. Stoddard, we've discussed this ..."  
  
"And you've concluded, Dr. Mentnor," the chief interrupted, "that everything here is only speculation." He held up his hands. "Don't get me wrong, sir. If you could provide me with a single piece of evidence – one scrap of hard fact or definitive proof – that this second BackStep would, without question, cause any of the possible outcomes you've described, I give you my word that I would personally go to the President and refuse to comply with the orders." He fixed his stare on the scientist. "Do you understand what I'm saying, doctor? I'd risk being branded a traitor to my President – my friend – in order to save our race from extinction if I knew – with absolute certainty – that the annihilation of all we hold dear and sacred in this world would result. You can't give me that assurance, and, as a result, I only have theories to consider. Theories – while they have tremendous merit in the scientific community – unfortunately don't mean a damn in the world of politics."  
  
"Mr. Stoddard, I assure you that there will be some result," the scientist offered.  
  
"And that's a risk the President is willing to take."  
  
"Now, wait just a minute."  
  
Everyone at the table turned to glance at Nathan Ramsey.  
  
The man pointed at his colleague. "With all due respect, Mr. Stoddard, Isaac Mentnor is the man most qualified to make that decision ... not our commander-in-chief. I understand the hierarchy probably just as well as any man or woman at this table. I know what you're facing. Were I in your shoes, I'd probably be reaching the same conclusion. The luxury that I have is that I'm not in your shoes, and I think – as a result – my opinion might be a little more impartial than yours." He shrugged. "Hell, chief, we don't even know what's happened to the President's son-in-law!"  
  
"That information is classified," Stoddard replied.  
  
"Classified?" Ramsey squinted at the man. "If what you said is true, then Trace Hightower is dead. Why should that information be classified?"  
  
The chief of staff grimaced. "The circumstances ... well, all I'm at liberty to say is that the circumstances surrounding the death of Mr. Hightower are tenuous. I'm not at liberty to share any of the specifics."  
  
Frustrated, Ramsey held up his hands. "Chief, do we even know he's dead?"  
  
Stoddard closed his eyes. He took a deep breath, a single finger tapping rhythmically on the polished tabletop. When he opened his eyes, he stared at the BackStep personnel.  
  
"Gentlemen," he began, "what I'm about to tell you cannot leave this room. I'm not going to ask you for any further oath of celibacy. Both of you have served the BackStep Program – with distinction, I might add – and I'll trust that you'll listen to what I have to say and keep it to yourselves." He pursed his lips. "Approximately seven hours ago, we lost all tracking and real-time imaging capability of our satellite surveillance system."  
  
"What?" Ramsey barked.  
  
"Mr. Hightower was trekking – on foot – with his company of secret service agents across the Alaskan frontier," Stoddard continued, ignoring Ramsey's interrupted. "The Soviets assured us that they registered – via their satellite systems – what appeared to be a thermonuclear blast. However, subsequent satellite imagery has confirmed no nuclear radioactivity. We've had the data analyzed – that is, what little data we've been provided – and it would appear to be that the NSA is the only agency with the ability to offer us any explanation for the blast." He paused before he added, "It appeared to be – somehow – a controlled burst of temporal energy ... temporal energy not unlike the reaction to the BackStep Sphere reactor core."  
  
Mentnor leaned forward, laying his arms on the table. "But, Mr. Stoddard, that's impossible. The fuel used to generate a BackStep is highly volatile, and it requires containment between the Sphere and our operations center. A single combustion is necessary to send a chrononaut back in time seven days. There is ... well, there is no possible way for the temporal energy to be released without any manner of containment. It just isn't possible."  
  
"Dr. Mentnor," Chloe interrupted, "seven hours ago someone made the impossible into a reality."  
  
"You're saying a blast of temporal energy is what took the life of Trace Hightower?" Ramsey asked.  
  
Stoddard nodded. "So far as we know."  
  
"So far as you know?"  
  
"Mr. Ramsey, as I thought I had made clear, we've lost all ability to track visually by satellite anywhere in the world right now," the chief remarked rather abruptly, losing control of his poise.  
  
"But what about the Soviets?" Ramsey pressed. "Haven't we asked them for the images?"  
  
"We've asked," Stoddard replied.  
  
"And?"  
  
"And we're still waiting on their reply."  
  
Banging a hand on the table, the man barked, "The damn Russkies! I thought we were allies!"  
  
"From day to day," Stoddard offered, "we think a good many things, Mr. Ramsey. Unfortunately, what we think doesn't necessarily equate with what we know. Right now, it would appear that every country around the world is analyzing satellite photography in an attempt to figure out exactly what happened in that Alaskan blast. Sadly, we're behind the biggest eight ball you could imagine. We have nothing. No photographs. No images. Nothing. Until we do, all we have to go on is the word of the madman who claims to have initiated this attack."  
  
"Richard DeMarco?" Ramsey tried.  
  
"Who?"  
  
Realizing that the White House and the BackStep Team were operating on different frequencies, Ramsey shook his head. "I can't believe this."  
  
"Who is Richard DeMarco?"  
  
"Never mind," Ramsey said.  
  
"But ... who is he?"  
  
Ignoring the question, Ramsey pointed at the telephone positioned in the center of the table before him. Glancing up at Agent Thomkins, he asked, "Match, is this a secure line?"  
  
The agent nodded.  
  
Reaching out, Ramsey pulled the phone closer to him. Quickly, he picked up the telephone and dialed. While he sat there, listening to the telephone ringing on the other end of the line, Stoddard and Vandemark and Mentnor and Thomkins glanced curiously around the table at one another, completely at a loss as to what was presently happening.  
  
Finally, Ramsey said, "Hello, I'd like to speak with Yuri Dorencho."  
  
"Mr. Ramsey?" Stoddard tried.  
  
The BackStep security director held up a finger to his lips, visually telling the White House Chief of Staff to remain silent.  
  
"Hello, Yuri?" the man said into the telephone. "It's Nathan Ramsey." Pause. "Well, I'm very good, sir, and how are you doing?" Pause. "Yes, I did very much. That was a very nice gift of you, Yuri, but please don't think you have to send me a case of your finest Vodka every time we talk shop. Ever since Parker died, I don't have anyone to blame when the bottles disappear!" Pause. Ramsey laughed. "Yes, that's right! But – look here, Yuri – I'm kind of in a rush. I was hoping that you could help me out with a little project." Pause. "Yes, I'm aware of that. We're currently looking into what happened in Alaska ourselves right now, and that's why I wanted to call. Yeah, it seems some of the dunderheads up at NASA lost the feed on our principle satellite over the area at the time. We're having some trouble re-tasking other satellites due to a computer glitch, and I was hoping you wouldn't mind sharing your photography with me? You understand ... I have some pretty important people to answer to, and I'm kind of on a deadline, if you know what I mean." Pause. "You're a scholar and a gentleman, Yuri. You name your price – so long as it isn't good ole American dollars – and I'll send a case of whatever you want your way." Pause. "Jack Daniels?" Pause. "Well, if that's what you have a hankering for, then I'm certainly not going to argue with you. It doesn't have the edge of your finest Vodka, but it serves its own medicinal purposes, I guess." Pause. "Yes. I'm at the White House. I'm with Chief of Staff Stoddard and some of his people. They'd really appreciate your help as well." Pause. "I'm sure a trip to Disneyland can be arranged. You call me with the dates, and it's a done deal." Pause. "That's right. Just upload them to me to my private server, and I'll download them from here." Pause. "You're the greatest, Yuri." Pause. "Say hello to Isabella from me." Pause. "That's right. Hugs and kisses to the kids, too."  
  
Finished, Nathan Ramsey hung up the telephone and was greeted to a table fun of astonished faces.  
  
"We'll have forty-seven images the Soviets have stored from their satellite mainframe docked in my personal server within the hour," he said. "There should be plenty there for us to analyze. Once we've done that, then, Mr. Stoddard, I think you can give the President the best possible advice."  
  
"Mr. Ramsey," Stoddard tried, still amazed at how simple the man managed to get highly classified satellite photography ... from a telephone call ... in exchange for a case of Jack Daniels? "How in the hell did you just do what you did?"  
  
"What?" Ramsey asked innocently. "Hell, Stoddard, you don't spend as many years in the Black Budget as I have and not make a few well-placed friends."  
  
END of Chapter 27 


	28. Chapter 28

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 28  
  
Five Days, Seventeen Hours, Fifteen Minutes  
  
Walking easily into the decompression chamber, his footsteps echoing on the heavy metal under his feet, Parker tried, "So, what's your story, Dave?"  
  
Surprised, Jennings pulled the massive steel door closed behind them. Carefully, he spun the circular handle to create an airtight seal that separated them from the rest of the group. "My story?"  
  
"Yeah," he replied. "What's your story? You know. What do you do here?"  
  
"Oh," Jennings said. Immediately, he pressed several buttons, and the door panel blinked from red to green. The mechanism hissed, and the door actuator engaged, guaranteeing the effectiveness of their isolation from the world. "I'm one of Larnord's caretakers."  
  
"One?"  
  
"Yes," he answered. "I'm one of the senior stewards. I've been with the Mallathorn since not long after his arrival on Earth."  
  
"How many does he have?"  
  
"To be perfectly honest, I don't know."  
  
"You can ballpark it, if you like."  
  
"I believe that there are several hundred, actually."  
  
"Several hundred?" Parker asked, astonished. "What the hell does he do with that kind of support staff?" Glancing over his shoulder, he added, "He's not eating them, is he? It seems to me that every alien we've seen in the movies love the taste of human flesh."  
  
"Oh, no. The Mallathorn requires little sustenance."  
  
"Then what? Is he up and running around the clock?"  
  
"Well, yes, despite the irony of a time traveler being wholly indifferent to time itself," the man explained nonchalantly. "You see, the Mallathorn never sleeps."  
  
With a smirk, Parker asked, "You mean he's like Santa Claus? He knows if you've been naughty or nice?"  
  
Jennings shrugged. "I don't know about that, Mr. Parker, but I do know that the Mallathorn never sleeps. His species, the Mallathorn, do not require the same level of regeneration that our human race needs. I don't think I've ever seen him sleep. I don't know ... well, I don't know that he'd know how."  
  
"I'm kind of feeling that way myself ... ever since I arrived in this timeline."  
  
"I can only imagine," Jennings said.  
  
The two men stood in the decompression room. They stared at one another.  
  
"What happens now?" Parker asked. "Does the little guy come in here, or do I go meet him?"  
  
The guide smiled. "You'll be meeting him shortly, after you've had the chance to disrobe."  
  
Parker raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Disrobe," Jennings repeated.  
  
"Yeah, that's what I thought you said." The chrononaut held up his hands. "Look, Dave, I appreciate the work you do here and all, but there's no way I'm walking into the next room to meet the overlord of some race of time-traveling aliens while I'm wearing nothing but my skivvies, do you understand?"  
  
"But, Mr. Parker ..."  
  
"I'm not going to do it, Dave."  
  
"Mr. Parker," Jennings interjected softly. "I don't mean to alarm you."  
  
"And I don't want you to see me in my underwear, Dave."  
  
"I understand," the man tried, "but the Mallathorn ..."  
  
"Larnord?"  
  
"Yes. Larnord."  
  
"Why don't you call him by his name?"  
  
"Who?"  
  
"Larnord," Parker stated. "You keep calling him by the name of his species."  
  
Jennings stared straight ahead, his face going completely blank. "It's what he prefers."  
  
"Then I think he'll have to understand that I prefer to meet people when I'm fully clothed."  
  
Sighing, Jennings shifted on his feet. He glanced around the airlock nervously before he explained, "It's the suit, Mr. Parker. You have to understand that the Mallathorn ..."  
  
"Larnord?"  
  
"Yes, Larnord," the man agreed. "Larnord is very uncomfortable with our species."  
  
"He's been here for a few years, hasn't he?"  
  
Jennings nodded. "Yes, he has."  
  
"So he's been among humans for a few years," Parker offered. "He has over one hundred human servants ... but you're telling me he's still uncomfortable around us?"  
  
Cocking his head to one side, the guide said, "He's ... suspicious."  
  
"Of me?"  
  
"Of everyone."  
  
"But he hasn't met me."  
  
"He hasn't met everyone, either."  
  
Parker crossed his arms. "So ... you're telling me that I've flown all the way across the United States for the sole purpose of meeting Larnord ... in my underwear?"  
  
Grimacing, Jennings apologized. "I'm ... sorry?"  
  
Waving, the man said, "It's not your fault, Dave. I've dealt with aliens before, believe it or not. I know that they're not always the most accommodating." He pointed to the airlock's door. "You'll have to step out, though."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Smiling, the chrononaut said, "It has nothing to do with me being shy, Dave. It has everything to do with keeping you alive. You see, in case they haven't told you, my biology and your biology are like oil and water. They don't mix. As a matter of fact, they shouldn't mix. There's this phenomenon called 'temporal contamination,' and, if you're exposed to me while I'm outside of this suit, some kind of temporal signature that's part of me will attack part of you like a virus. It kills people in a matter of hours ... and I don't want to see anyone else suffer."  
  
"Oh," the man replied enthusiastically. "I understand."  
  
"You do?"  
  
"Yes," Jennings agreed. "But your temporal signature is of no risk to me, Mr. Parker."  
  
"It's not?"  
  
"No, sir. It's no risk to the Mallathorn, either. In order for me to be able to work in this facility, I've been vaccinated ... with Chroniticin."  
  
"Everyone who works here is vaccinated?"  
  
"Not everyone," the man explained. "Only the steward ... those of us allowed into the chamber."  
  
"Why's that?" Parker turned and studied the heavy door that separated the two of them from the inner sanctum of Larnord. "Does the Mallathorn pose some kind of risk to humans?"  
  
"Not that I'm aware," Jennings offered.  
  
"Then why have you been vaccinated?"  
  
"To the best of my understanding, the Mallathorn ..."  
  
"Larnord?"  
  
"Yes," he agreed. "Larnord. To the best of my understanding, Larnord has been expected you ... or another one of you from an alternate timeline ... for quite some time."  
  
Again, Parker looked surprised. "Really?"  
  
"Yes, sir. Don't get me wrong. It isn't as if Larnord knew you were coming. He simply has had his staff prepared for your eventual arrival."  
  
"Why?"  
  
Jennings smiled. "I believe you'll find out why from him. I believe that that is precisely why the Mallathorn called you here today."  
  
Again, Parker studied the door. He wondered what to expect on the other side. No one had shown him a picture of this alien, and he wondered whether or not any existed. He imagined that the Mallathorn probably appreciated his privacy, and that privacy would dictate that no one – or very few people – had the chance to meet with him. If Larnord wanted to meet Frank Parker but the alien arrived on Earth – bringing with him the gift of a new Sphere in return for the one this timeline's Frank Parker destroyed – then how could the alien have possibly ever known that another Parker would inevitably appear in this continuum?  
  
His head hurt, and he realized how much he hated the mechanics of time travel.  
  
Reaching up, he twisted the seal on his protective helmet.  
  
"All right, Dave," Parker said. "Get out your one dollar bills because Frankie is about to strip."  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Never mind."  
  
END of Chapter 28 


	29. Chapter 29

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 29  
  
Five Days, Seventeen Hours, Nine Minutes  
  
Donovan opened his eyes and stared up into one of the loveliest of faces he hadn't seen in quite a long time.  
  
"How are you feeling?" Olga asked.  
  
He blinked the sleep from his eyes. Suddenly feeling the dull ache at the base of his skull, the man stayed perfectly still on the hospital bed. "I could be better."  
  
"Is that so?" she tried, smiling at him.  
  
"No," he offered, grinning back at her. "I'm much better now that I'm treated to another friendly face."  
  
Talmadge stepped up to the bed, laying a firm hand on the NSA agent's shoulder. "Well, I guess those sentiments weren't exclusive to just me. You disappoint me, Craig."  
  
Chuckling, Donovan winced at the sudden lance of pain in his temples. The doctor was right. He really needed his rest. "Nothing personal, Bradley." Tiredly, he closed his eyes, trying to will the aches and pains from his body. "Olga is just much prettier than you are."  
  
"I'll try not to take that personally."  
  
Slowly, he reached out for the bedrails and tried to hoist himself up. Immediately, he felt Talmadge's firm hand keep him in his place.  
  
"Not now, Craig," the director said. "You need your rest."  
  
"I need to get up. That's what I need to do."  
  
"You'll be up and around in no time," Olga cautioned him. "But ... for right now ... you lie there. We'll talk, but I want you to stay in bed for a while longer, Craig."  
  
Disgusted over the weakness he felt throughout his entire body, he nodded in resignation. He let go of the rails and slipped his hands across his stomach. After a second – after his mind kicked into its regular level of awareness – he remembered what had happened. He had heard gunshots. He saw the panic in the face of a nurse standing near his bedside. He told her to take cover. He leapt from the bed, ran into the hallway, and there – down the end of the long corridor – he squinted his eyes to make out ...  
  
"DeMarco!" he spat.  
  
"He's escaped," Talmadge explained, and Donovan heard the disappointment in the director's tone. "But don't worry. I have the D.C. police pulling photography from streetlamp cameras. Fortunately, the hospital security camera provided a good photo capture of DeMarco's escape car, and the police are attempting to track down the vehicle right now."  
  
Lying in the bed, Donovan felt his pulse quicken. He sensed the flush of anger wash warmly over his face. "Bradley, that sonuvabitch killed a good man."  
  
"Yes," the director replied. "We heard about your friend – Detective Martin Guerrero." The man drew his mouth into a frown. "I'm sorry for your loss, Craig."  
  
"He killed Marty for nothing," Donovan remarked. "Absolutely nothing! We didn't have him captured. We didn't have him cornered. He left a bomb at a damn hotel room, Bradley." He shook his head. "If we hadn't walked in, the lunatic could've killed a cleaning lady or any number of other innocent people."  
  
"DeMarco is a terrorist," Talmadge explained. "He lives and breathes to serve a single purpose: to terrorize people. Anyone, Craig. DeMarco will kill anyone so long as he believes it serves that purpose."  
  
"I'm gonna get him, Bradley."  
  
"Easy, Craig."  
  
Olga tapped a button on the monitor, turning off the alarm that sounded as Donovan's heart raced. "Craig," she interrupted, her voice soft and smooth, "you must calm down. Your body has suffered a terrible shock. I want you to try to relax."  
  
"Tell me you're going to get me out of here, Bradley," the man insisted, his eyes fixed on his former boss. "Tell me you're going to let me get DeMarco before he can kill anyone else."  
  
The director ran his hand down from the man's shoulder to his forearm. He gripped tightly as he leaned close. "Craig, right now I'm giving you the order to heal thyself. You can't go after DeMarco in the condition you're in. You can't even stand."  
  
"Give me your word, Bradley ..."  
  
"You get well, first," the director ordered.  
  
"That's not what I want to hear ..."  
  
"You have my word, Craig."  
  
Again, Donovan sensed his world starting to spin. He quickly gulped a few breaths of air, and the world slowed down a bit, brightening in his vision. He felt Olga's hand gently on his cheek, and he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

* * *

In the hall outside, Olga found herself racing to catch up to Talmadge.  
  
"You're not actually going to let him do this, are you, Bradley?"  
  
The director stopped, allowing her to catch him.  
  
"What?"  
  
She placed her hands on her hips. "DeMarco! You're not actually going to allow Donovan to go after that killer?"  
  
Calmly, the director stuffed his hands into the pockets of his coat. Gazing quizzically down the hallway at nothing in particular, he asked, "Olga, do you think I could stop him if I wanted to?"  
  
"He's sick," she insisted. "He needs his rest."  
  
"He'll get it," Talmadge agreed. "But you know Craig Donovan as well as I do. He has a very high pain threshold. Incredibly high, I might add, as he was our prime alternate to take over Frank's position after ... well, after he died." He stared at the floor for a moment. "Things didn't work out the way we had planned. All things considered, Craig's threshold doesn't come close to Frank's and it isn't as refined as Channing's, but there's no doubt in my mind that he'll recover from his wounds very quickly." Leaning closer to her, he added, "That said, we have to face the simply facts: we need him, Olga. Right now, we need every man and woman we can trust."  
  
She huffed. "You're right," she conceded despite her best interests.  
  
"Stay with him," he told her. "I want to make certain that he has the best care. I need him on his feet now ... not two days from now."  
  
He turned and started down the hallway.  
  
"Where are you going?" she called.  
  
He glanced back over his shoulder, offering, "It looks like we've a young lady in custody who might be able to tell us more about Richard DeMarco than Richard DeMarco would want us to know."  
  
END of Chapter 29


	30. Chapter 30

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 30  
  
Five Days, Seventeen Hours  
  
Parker slowly pushed open the airlock door – a massive hunk of pure steel – and stepped into the chamber.  
  
The room was a tremendous vault that stretched as far as his eyes could see. It was scented lightly with an aroma of flowers – he couldn't imagine why – and felt damp, dewy. Perhaps Larnord – the alien – preferred the flora of Earth. He didn't know. He could only guess.  
  
Turning, he used all of his might – now free of the clumsy CDC pressure suit and clothed only in his boxers, athletic socks, and a white t- shirt – and he closed the door behind him, hearing the metal tumblers click nastily back into their grooves, closing him off entirely from the world outside.  
  
He was alone. Inside a Pentagon subchamber.  
  
... with an alien.  
  
... and he didn't exactly have a good track record at dealing with aliens.  
  
Larnord's chamber was lined with an odd assortment of equipment. Walking slowly, he admired some of it – electron microscopes, laboratory tables, video monitors – but then he was aghast at some of what he found. There, next to a bank of television screens all showing various entry points and internal corridors throughout the Pentagon, was a stack of ...  
  
... compact discs?  
  
"You've got to kidding me?"  
  
Crouching, the man glanced across the hundreds of title of the discs to get an understanding of what an alien – this Larnord – could possibly find of interest for his music library. To his surprise, Parker found selections from every conceivable music group from every conceivable genre: Third Eye Blind, Bond, Selena, Tito Puente, Streisand, Manilow ...  
  
"Manilow?" he asked aloud.  
  
Then, he heard it. The song – "Looks Like We Made It" – was played softly from an unseen stereo system nearby.  
  
"You've got to be kidding me," he muttered.  
  
Rising, he noticed the walls were lined with bookshelves, and, upon them, there were hundreds upon hundreds of books, magazines, encyclopedia volumes, dictionaries ... if it had a name, Parker saw it there.  
  
"Hello, Frank Parker."  
  
Whirling, he glanced in the direction of the voice, down near the floor, under a table lined with chemicals stored in various test tubes and globes. Beneath the table, stretched out on the cold marble floor was ... Larnord. The alien sat, cross-legged, with a magazine open in front of ... him? Her? It?  
  
Parker was afraid to guess.  
  
"Hello," the chrononaut replied.  
  
Larnord lifted his tiny head – it was the size of a small child's – and Parker stared into his black oval eyes. He had seen them before – on the alien he had found in the BackStep facilities long ago – but the facial features were different. For one, Larnord's skin was almost ... human. It had a similar pinkish, peach hue. His cheeks were dotted with what looked like freckles, small circles of deep amber. His nose had slits for nostrils, and his mouth was broad, open, showing humanlike teeth in an impish smile. Larnord had no ears, no hair ... but he did have a mass of flowing tentacles that circled his head Medusa-like and stretched downward, wrapping around his small body.  
  
Uncertain of what to say to such a grand visitor from another world, from perhaps another time, Parker tried, "Er ... whatcha reading?"  
  
Still smiling, Larnord held up the magazine and showed the cover to the man.  
  
"Cosmo?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You do know ... you do know that's not about science, right?"  
  
Suddenly, Larnord slipped out from under the long table and stood, closing the magazine and setting it on top of the unit. "I find your species fascinating. I always have. That is why I volunteered for this post."  
  
"Well," Parker tried, confused, "what does that have to do with you reading a fashion magazine?"  
  
The alien stood just under three feet tall. Those tentacles stretched all of the way to the floor, draping around him like a cape.  
  
"Your species places an incredible emphasis on relationships," it said, inclining his head back at the open magazine. "However, you fail to grasp the relationship – and the responsibility – that you, as a people, have to the galactic community."  
  
Parker shrugged. He didn't know what to make of the observation. "Ever seen 'The Day The Earth Stood Still'?" he finally asked.  
  
"I have." Larnord held up a single finger. "I believe I have it around here on DVD."  
  
"Yeah, well," the man said, "that's pretty much what the film was about."  
  
Nervously, Parker leaned on the electron microscope behind him.  
  
"You're not what I expected," the alien observed.  
  
"You never are."  
  
"Your people," it stated, "are far too linear in your thinking."  
  
The chrononaut shrugged again. "What can I say, Larry? It's the nature of our existence."  
  
"Existence is far more than linear, Frank Parker."  
  
"You're preaching to the choir ... in a sense." The man shifted his weight from one side to the next. An electron microscope didn't exactly offer one the most comfortable seating possible. "Look, why don't you stop calling me by my full name, okay, pal? You can call me Frank, and I'll call you Larry."  
  
"Hello, Frank," the alien agreed.  
  
"Hello, Larry."  
  
"That's why I wanted to meet you."  
  
"What? My charm?"  
  
"No," Larnord replied. "But ... it is acceptable."  
  
"There are others who don't think so."  
  
In a surprisingly human gesture, Larnord sniffed. "What do they know?"  
  
The chrononaut held up his hands. "I don't know, Larry. I suppose – much like myself – they don't know much. They're just going about their lives – living them out in that linear fashion you mentioned – reading Cosmopolitan and listening to Barry Manilow."  
  
"You don't like my tastes?"  
  
Parker scoffed at the idea. "To each his own." He nodded in the direction of the CD selection. "Do you have any Johnny Cash in there?"  
  
"I do."  
  
"Then ... you can't be all bad."  
  
The two beings stood silent for several long seconds, studying one another.  
  
"I am not what you expected," Larnord said.  
  
"Aliens rarely are," Parker admitted. "But I guess that's something that we Earthlings have come to accept."  
  
"You have met many?"  
  
"A few," he confessed. "I wouldn't pretend to be an expert on interplanetary relations. I leave that to the big boys here in Washington."  
  
"They are far from experts, Frank."  
  
"Again, you're not telling me anything I don't already know, Larry."  
  
Suddenly, the alien moved, his legs perfectly still. It hovered closer, rising a few feet in the air, reaching eye level with the chrononaut. Parker drew in a few measured breaths, trying to slow his throbbing heart, hoping that the alien wasn't studying the whites of his eyes. He didn't want to appear uneven or unsettled, but he figured he was losing in the public relations effort. Larnord, after all, had the advantage: he had lived here, on this Earth, daily being cared for by several hundred assistants. Parker, on the other hand, only happened across aliens once or twice.  
  
"There is no need to feel yourself inferior," Larry tried.  
  
'The little bastard read my mind!'  
  
Cocking an eyebrow at him, Parker asked, "You read my mind?"  
  
"Aren't all aliens mind-readers, Frank?"  
  
'He read that, too!'  
  
Trying to cleanse his mind of anything offensive or abrupt, Parker thought about ... about ... about ... Olga.  
  
"Yes," Larnord replied. "I've seen pictures of her, Frank. She's very lovely."  
  
'This is getting embarrassing,' Parker thought.  
  
"Don't give it another thought," the alien said.  
  
"Look, Larry," the man interrupted, "don't take this the wrong way. I have no problem with you – personally – but if the sole purpose of asking me here was for you to spend the better part of our visit crawling around inside of my head, I'm going to give you one warning: I have far better things to do."  
  
"I don't doubt it, Frank."  
  
"In case you haven't been brought up to speed, we have a major terrorist figure running around out there," Parker snapped.  
  
"I'm aware of that."  
  
"If that's the case, then you can understand why I might ask you to hurry up on the speech, get out whatever it is you wanted to say, and let me get the hell out of here." Suddenly, Parker hoisted himself off the equipment, and he stuck in his very close to the alien. "I'm not here to scare you any more than it looks like you're here to scare me, but I have a job to do ... and you have some Cosmo to read ... so why don't we call it even, and I'll be on my way?"  
  
Reflexively, a single tentacle raced up from Larnord's side and wrapped loosely around the chrononaut's neck. Parker reached up, prepared to fight off the little beast, but before he could wrap his fingers around the hunk of flesh, he heard:  
  
"You have to understand one simple idea, Frank. No matter what you do, this world ... dies."  
  
END of Chapter 30 


	31. Chapter 31

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 31  
  
** At the same time   
**  
The White House War Room was buzzing with activity.  
  
Ramsey and Mentnor watched as technicians ran everywhere, trying desperately to establish some kind of uplink with the United States satellite in orbit of the planet. They were chatting on telephones – some of the conversations were obviously very heated – and they were tearing panels off walls to expose circuitry. The video monitors displayed various pictures, most of them pixilated garbage – color schemes and test patterns – as the men and women tried to squeeze anything – even a single frame – of footage from the cameras high above the Earth's atmosphere.  
  
"They haven't the slightest idea of what to do," Mentnor observed aloud.  
  
Ramsey sipped some hot coffee from his official White House cup. "Why should they?" he asked. "Hell, none of these techs look like they were old enough to pee during the Vietnam War. Their science geeks ... no insult intended, Isaac. You're different. You've been out there, you know? You've been in the field. These kids have probably never seen anything like this." He shrugged. "Right now, they're probably wishing they had a telescope so they could poke their heads above ground and take a look in the right direction. If nothing else, they'd feel a greater sense of job security."  
  
"But it isn't their fault," the scientist argued.  
  
"Of course, it isn't," Ramsey agreed. "Try telling that to them."  
  
"Dr. Mentnor!"  
  
Immediately, one of the technicians stood up and waved from a computer console several stations away. The young-faced man gestured for Mentnor to come over, and Isaac glanced at the director.  
  
"Go on," Ramsey said. "If they've managed to link you into the BackStep system, I'll eat my hat ... if I had one."  
  
"Try to be positive."  
  
"I'm positive I'd eat my hat ... if I had one."  
  
Mentnor scoffed at the man as he disappear in the direction of the computer consoles.  
  
Ramsey felt a hand on his shoulder, and he turned to find Stoddard and McGinty at his back.  
  
"What do we know?" he asked.  
  
Quickly, the two White House staffers exchanged a quick glance.  
  
"Mr. Ramsey," Stoddard began slowly, "the President has agreed that we should bring you into the loop as to everything we presently know."  
  
Slowly, the director nodded. "I'm listening."  
  
"Some of this ... you may find some of what I'm about to tell you very hard to believe," the chief of staff began. "But – I give you my word – everything I'm about to tell you is ... well ... it is everything we know."  
  
Again, Ramsey bobbed his head at the man.  
  
"A few hours ago, Senator Arthur Pendley came to the White House," Stoddard explained. "He confessed to being behind the whole affair. He's taken control of our satellite network – as you well know – and he's given us certain demands."  
  
"Wait a minute," Ramsey interrupted, turning and looking for a table upon which to set his cup of coffee. He found nothing, but, instead, he handed it to the next young technician who buzzed past him. "Stoddard, are you telling me that one of our own – Senator Pendley – is behind this?"  
  
"You have to understand the Washington dynamic, Nathan," McGinty offered, trying to shed some light on the curious circumstances. "Pendley is an established commodity in this town. He's what you might call very old school politics. He comes from tobacco money, the Pendley brand name itself. He's served the United States Senate for over thirty years ... and, for nearly his entire tenure, he's served aboard one of most prestigious intelligence committees in the Capitol. This past election, he virtually demanded a seat on the President's Cabinet, but Campbell refused the man."  
  
"If he's so important, why did Campbell turn him down?"  
  
"Just because he's old school," Stoddard tried, "doesn't mean it's a school you'd want to send any of your children to, Mr. Ramsey. As far as I'm concerned, Pendley has been a silent menace to this and previous administrations for many years. He's only interested in serving his own goals, his own agenda. That isn't to say he isn't a patriot. Rather, I would say that he has a very unique way of showing it."  
  
It didn't make much sense to Ramsey, but, then again, not much of the Washington political circle ever did. Sure, he understood the fine art of greasing the big man's palm, but Pendley had money ... he had an established career ... he had a track record and was a household name ... what could he possibly stand to gain?  
  
"What did he want?" the man asked.  
  
"I beg your pardon?"  
  
"Mr. Stoddard," Ramsey started, leaning closer to as not to be overheard, "you don't have a lunatic taking control of one of our nation's critical defenses for no reason. I assume he gave you a demand – or a list of demands. What did he want?"  
  
Again, the two White House staffers exchanged glances with one another.  
  
Stoddard cleared his throat. "He had several ... requests. If we refused to comply, he was going to use this weapon again ... on an unspecified target. He wanted ... he demanded that the President draft an order surrendering all control of the Executive Branch to him."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Our thoughts exactly," the man agreed. "He knows the system, and he knows how to manipulate it."  
  
"Well, couldn't the second President just rescind the order?" Ramsey asked.  
  
Stoddard scratched his head. "Executive Orders ... they can be drafted in such a way as to eliminate any power to be rescinded. It's a matter of Executive Privilege."  
  
The BackStep director rubbed a hand over his face. "That's not good news."  
  
"That isn't all he wanted." Stoddard locked eyes with the younger man. "He wants control of FEMA."  
  
Ramsey thought about it for a moment. "FEMA?" he rolled the word over his lips. Placing his hands on his hips, he huffed. "I guess that makes perfect sense."  
  
Surprised, McGinty squinted at the man. "Why? We've been puzzling over that since Pendley made the demand. What could he possibly want with FEMA?"  
  
"Either he's a fool," Ramsey explained, "or he's tipped his hand. Since you're pointed out he has a pretty solid track record around here, I'm going to rule out the former and concentrate on the latter. Pendley is no idiot ... but, right now, it would appear that he's alone or has relatively few men at his beck and call. Clearly, he wants FEMA under his control because that, in a fashion, give him his own military. If you tried to remove him from his new post as emperor – assuming to give in to his first demand – then giving in to his second would afford him the physical might to enforce it." Ramsey crinkled his forehead in thought. "Either that, or he has something very mission specific in mind."  
  
"I don't follow," Stoddard tried.  
  
Could it be ...? Ramsey considered the alternatives that maybe everything he had been told – perhaps the loss of the satellite network – wasn't permanent. Maybe Pendley needed a strike force to solidify his position. Maybe he desired it for show ... but that wasn't exactly logical, even for a madman. Power corrupts, and any powerful corruptor can always find faithful men and women to follow him ... at a price. The military associated to FEMA would follow him because they had been ordered to ... but what could he need them for? To secure the satellite network?  
  
"Has Pendley offered to return the space defense grid to you?" he asked.  
  
Stoddard swallowed. "Yes, he has, but only after we meet another of his demands."  
  
"Another? Outside of controlling the only remaining superpower left on the planet, what else could the man want?"  
  
"He wants BackStep," McGinty interjected. "Well, to be perfectly frank, he wants the program dismantled."  
  
Ramsey chuckled. "That's no surprise," he argued. "Why allow a secret government program to exist when it could jeopardize your position of power? Pendley doesn't want BackStep for his own means. He's already put his cards on the table by killing the President's son-in-law. He's shown you how far he's willing to go to get what he wants. Giving him BackStep – much like giving him control of FEMA – only further cements his authority over you."  
  
"But that isn't what he wanted in exchange for returning control of our satellites to us," Stoddard explained.  
  
"Then what was it?"  
  
After a pause, the White House Chief of Staff explained, "He demanded the head of Larnord be delivered to him."  
  
"What?" Ramsey barked. "When?"  
  
"We have about three hours to comply," McGinty explained.  
  
It didn't make sense. With BackStep under his control, Pendley would have the ability to control any possible time travel. What purpose could a dead alien serve? Was he intent upon sending a message to the Mallathorn? If that were the case, why wouldn't he contact them directly – on his own – through official channels once he was given control of the country?  
  
Dismantle BackStep?  
  
Kill the alien with the ability to create a new BackStep Program?  
  
Could it be that simple?  
  
Ramsey shook his head. No. Pendley was a madman ... but he was calculating, as well. He wouldn't have survived his years in the Senate – his years in service in the intelligence community – only to piss it all away on a simple power scheme. Being granted control of the Executive Branch would give him all of the possible power and wealth he or anyone could possibly imagine ... but what was it about time travel ...?  
  
Alaska.  
  
"We don't know what happened in Alaska," Ramsey thought aloud.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"I said ... we don't know what happened in Alaska ... do we?"  
  
Stoddard was confused. "Well, from what we've been told, an energy signature not unlike that generated in the BackStep Sphere's temporal core created some kind of reaction that took the life of Trace Hightower ..."  
  
"No," Ramsey concluded. Defiantly, he shook his head. "Mr. Stoddard, my guess is that Trace is alive."  
  
His eyes open in surprise, Stoddard glared at the man. "What are you talking about?"  
  
"I'm talking about the fact that Pendley didn't want you to see what he was doing in Alaska, right?" he offered, holding up his hands, placing them on the chief's lapels. "He didn't want you to see it."  
  
"Yes, but that's because we weren't aware ..."  
  
"If Pendley is behind this controlled burst of temporal energy – as you say – then he didn't know whether or not it would work," Ramsey concluded. "Don't get me wrong, Stoddard. Pendley has this weapon. He used it on Trace. But ... the man didn't know whether or not the thing would work ... don't you see? This was his test run."  
  
McGinty nodded. "That makes sense, Nathan, but I don't understand what you're getting at?"  
  
Turning to the other man, Ramsey tried, "McGinty ... when the United States government is testing a new weapon ... let's say we're testing an experimental aircraft ... what's the procedure? We generally give it a test run in an area where it can't be seen by any of the American public, right? We generally conduct these tests that are in an area not subject to routine satellite photography, right?"  
  
"Well," the man considered the prospect, "yes, that's correct."  
  
"But once we know that the aircraft works, then we issue a press release ... or we send out an internal memo ... we let everyone know – on a need to know basis – that we have this new weapon – this new aircraft – this new technology. We don't give 'em the whole shebang, but we let 'em know what's gone beyond the drawing table and is at stage one of becoming useable, right?"  
  
The two men stared at Ramsey.  
  
"Pendley's taken his first strike," the man continued. "He's drawn first blood, don't you see?"  
  
"Mr. Ramsey, I don't follow ..."  
  
"Why, then, if he truly had drawn first blood – if he truly had taken the life of the President's son-in-law – why wouldn't he want to show the President firsthand evidence that Trace Hightower was dead?" Ramsey demanded. "Why wouldn't he give you back those satellites?"  
  
Suddenly, realization dawned on Stoddard as he lifted his eyes: "Hightower's alive?"  
  
"That's my guess." The director of BackStep Security was obvious pleased with himself. "Pendley wants the delay in order to make certain himself that he didn't screw up. Well, let's assume that he found out that he did screw up ... how could he fix it?"  
  
This time, it was McGinty who spoke: "He'd need a strike force to carry out his plan."  
  
"Exactly!" Ramsey exclaimed. "Pendley wants control of FEMA so that he can send a team into Alaska to finish the job that he messed up with this weapon of his! Don't you see? He missed the target, but in order to have any chip to bargain with, he needs the manpower to clean up the mistake!"  
  
Determined, Stoddard slapped a hand to the man's shoulders. "Mr. Ramsey, we need those satellite photos. We have to prove that what you're saying is correct. If it is, then it may very well alter the course of decisions the President is going to have to make over the course of the next several hours."  
  
Straightening, Ramsey tugged his suit coat firmly onto his shoulders. "I understand, Mr. Stoddard. Let me log into the BackStep server. Despite his political leanings, Yuri's a man of his word. If he's found anything worth sharing, I think it's time we had a look."  
  
END of Chapter 31 


	32. Chapter 32

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 32  
  
**At the same time   
**  
Indiri Farris told him – Channing Michelson – everything she could remember. She ran through meeting Richard DeMarco on the international flight. She told the man from the NSA everything she could possibly remember about their chatting, their teasing, their flirting. She explained that she had given him her card – she thought he was just a harmless soul traveling to the United States for personal reasons – and she confessed that he had contacted her, agreed to meet her, and invited her to dinner at the wonderful Heston hotel. From there, with some reservation, she told Michelson about the romantic interlude – yes, she admitted despite her better judgment, they had made love, but they were adults, both consenting adults, and it felt like the right thing to do so far as she was concerned. She explained that, when she awoke to her ringing cell phone, DeMarco was gone, and it was then that her opinion of the man changed.  
  
"He was no different than any man I've met," Indiri spat. "He took what he wanted from me ... and he left."  
  
"I'm sorry," Michelson tried.  
  
"You know the saying. Wham. Bam." She lowered her face in embarrassment. "I guess ... I guess I deserved that, believing that there still was some fairy tale for a post-40-year-old woman."  
  
"Miss Farris," the man interrupted, "I'm terribly sorry. I didn't mean for you to go into the particulars. What happened between you and Richard DeMarco ... happened. I can't erase that. You can't either. There's no sense in reliving it. Right now, however, I need you to tell me what happened next."  
  
"That's it," she stated matter-of-factly. "I left."  
  
"You left the Heston?"  
  
"Yes," she said. "The telephone call was from my secretary, and she was insisting that I get down to this ... well ... one of my models was performing some extracurricular exercise at a popular gentlemen's club. I had to stop her before she ruined her career."  
  
The man reached over to the table, and he retrieved the photograph – the autopsy picture – one of the policemen had provided. "This is your friend?" He held out the picture of the white-skinned model lying on the aluminum table. There was a dark circle on the woman's forehead – raised, with ridges like that of a volcano. The dead woman's eyes were closed, thankfully, and her face was expressionless.  
  
"Yes," Indiri tried, choking back her emotion. "That is ... that was Ulrika Von Sendon. She was one of ... she was one of the models I represented." Tears cracked through her rough exterior, and she wiped them away angrily from her flushed cheeks. "She was due for a photoshoot that she didn't want to attend," she explained, "but I tell you it was going to be her breakthrough – her overnight sensation. It would have put her on the map. And now ... and now she's dead."  
  
Peacefully, Michelson returned the photograph to the table. "Mr. Farris, do you have any reason to suspect why someone would want to kill her?"  
  
"Absolutely not," Indiri protested. "Ulrika ... she was high maintenance ... every model is. It's a cut-throat business, Mr. Michelson."  
  
"I'm sure it is ... but, like you, I have good reason to believe that the bullet that took the life of Ms. Von Sendon wasn't meant for her."  
  
She sat perfectly still, her eyes glazed over but fixed with determination on the agent. She knew what he was about to say. The thought had entered her mind once he had told her the truth about Richard DeMarco. The man was a terrorist. He was a killer. He was a maniac, a lunatic, a rebel serving no cause other than personal gain. Money, she imagined. Money ... or power. After all, isn't that what drove most terrorists to do what they did? Certainly, they wanted to terrorize. That went hand-in-hand with the job description. But, in the end, it always came down to the simplest of issues: money or power.  
  
'What is it, Richard?' she thought. 'What did you want? Was it money? You appeared to have plenty. No doubt – if you're half as good as Mr. Michelson has said you are – you have plenty of it. You're probably independently wealthy. Was it power? Yes, that's it. Isn't it? It's power. It's control over others. It's pure manipulation for the sake of a morality-free self esteem. All I was to you was another victim you could control ... for the time being ... and then I'd become the worst possible definition of a victim there is.'  
  
"People like Richard DeMarco don't function by the same principles that we do, Ms. Farris," Michelson explained. "Please don't misunderstand me. This has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he probably found you very attractive. He probably – in his own way – was pleased with every moment of the time the two of you spent together ... but, in the end, it only served his purpose for self-gratification."  
  
She nodded somberly. "Yes, I understand, Mr. Michelson."  
  
"Call me Channing," he tried.  
  
"Thank you, Channing."  
  
"DeMarco was probably trying to clear up what he thought was a loose end," he continued. "I can't tell you how sorry I am that you suffered this way, and I can't tell you how sorry I am about the death of your ... employee."  
  
She studied his eyes.  
  
"It's inconsolable," he told her. "I won't tell you that I understand what you're feeling right now. I will only tell you that we're going to need your cooperation until we get this man." He leaned forward. "DeMarco will be stopped. We won't let him do this again. But we're going to need your cooperation."  
  
The man really had lovely eyes. If she had to guess, he was a few years younger than him, but now was hardly the time for attraction. Odds are, she told herself, he already had a significant other in his life. Handsome men always do. She wondered whether or not his woman – his wife, his lover, whatever – truly appreciated the calming spirit he could be.  
  
"I'm not sure how I can help," she confessed softly.  
  
"Think about it, Miss Farris," Talmadge announced, stepping up to her chair after entering the room.  
  
"I'm sorry?"  
  
He reached out and took her hand in his. "My name is Bradley Talmadge," he announced. "I work, like Mr. Michelson, for the NSA."  
  
Looking up, she noticed the man's gruff but masculine face, and, to her surprise, she thought she noticed something oddly paternal about the way he looked at her. This was a man, she guessed, who made it his business of 'taking care' of people. He made others feel safe ... and she appreciated the gaze he gave her.  
  
"It's a pleasure to meet you," Indiri said.  
  
He crouched next to where she sat. "Miss Farris, I'm not going to waste your time offering you any kind of strategy that won't make much sense to any of us, but I am going to point out the obvious: Richard DeMarco called you. Richard DeMarco – whether you like it or not – saw something in you that he wanted. It might've been chemistry. It might've been nothing more than – as Channing has pointed out – the chance for sexual gratification, and please accept my apology if you find that estimation crude. Still, the man took a chance meeting with you, and, afterwards, he accepted the need to clean up his tracks. I don't want to alarm you by saying that DeMarco might not be finished with this personal vendetta."  
  
She couldn't believe what she was hearing. All she wanted – when this night began – was some simple companionship. She wanted a good dinner. She wanted a handsome man. She wanted to feel the comfort of another human's warmth lying next to her, despite her best interests to 'get to know' the man first. She wanted time alone with another caring soul. She thought she had found it with this mysterious international traveler ... and now she learned that her life was in danger.  
  
"You mean ... he's going to keep trying to kill me ... until he finishes the job?" she asked, her voice cracking.  
  
"We won't let that happen," Michelson interjected.  
  
"Absolutely not," Talmadge assured her. "Right now, you're the only human contact that we know of with whom Richard DeMarco has spent time. We do know that he wasn't alone here at the hospital. There was a second gunman with him. As we sit here speaking with you, the Washington D.C. police are busy going through their files to try to determine who that second gunman was. If he has a record, they'll find it. Once they find the record, it'll lead us to the man and, should he have one, whatever organization he represents." Comfortingly, he placed a hand on her shoulder. "But that doesn't dismiss the fact that – right now – you're the only person we have who can tie us to Richard DeMarco ... and, for that reason, I'm going to have to ask you to make some sacrifices for your country."  
  
"Sacrifices?" she tried, brushing her hair out of her eyes. "What do you mean?"  
  
He smiled, and, again, she sensed the security of being in his presence. It was a warmth she didn't fully understand, and she convinced herself that it wasn't important. What mattered was the fact that he was here – this Talmadge fellow – and he was going to see to it that she was kept safe from danger ...  
  
"Miss Farris, consider yourself drafted."  
  
... or maybe he wasn't.  
  
END of Chapter 32 


	33. Chapter 33

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 33  
  
Five Days, Sixteen Hours, Forty Minutes  
  
"You wouldn't mind explaining why an entire world must die, would you, Larry?"  
  
The Mallathorn studied Frank Parker's fixed expression, and the alien realized that he instinctively trusted the man. In fact, this chrononaut – unlike so many of the others who had died in their pursuits in so many other dimensions – had successfully made history – literally in far more interesting, exciting, and rewarding ways than the average person or alien could or would ever imagine. As such, the two – the alien and the man – shared a unique kinship that defied the boundaries of space and time, whether the man ever conceived of it or accepted it. They were colleagues. They were professionals. Secrets were beneath the two of them, and Larnord knew he would have to offer this man – a man above most mortal men – as thorough an explanation as possible ...  
  
... within limits.  
  
Frank Parker was, after all, human. Genetics would limit his understanding of temporal mechanics, but Larnord was convinced it was worth the attempt.  
  
"Despite some perceived complexities, death is a very simple concept, Frank."  
  
"Trust me, pal," the man replied. "From where you're from, maybe that's the way of things. But when you've walked a mile in my shoes, you find out just how bad your feet can ache, if you know what I mean. When you've done the things that I've done, you learn to take nothing for granted, and you learn that nothing – however remote the possibility – is ever that simple."  
  
"But it is."  
  
"It isn't," Parker insisted. As the Mallathorn's tentacle slowly released and lanced away from his neck, he rubbed his skin reflexively with his own hand. His neck felt normal, thank goodness. "You're saying that a world ... this world ... that I have to let it die."  
  
"Yes."  
  
He shook his head. "What does that mean exactly?"  
  
"It must die."  
  
"It must end?"  
  
"Precisely." Shrugging – an odd gesture coming from the diminutive creature – he added, "It is that simple."  
  
"I can't do that."  
  
"You can, Frank."  
  
Convinced that his neck was fine, he crossed his arms. "Maybe you're not hearing me, Larry. I refuse. Did that come through that skinny little head of yours? I refuse to let this world die while I stand by ... especially if there is anything I can do to prevent it."  
  
"You have to."  
  
"I don't accept that."  
  
"It isn't for you to accept."  
  
"Fine," Parker spat. "I won't take any orders from you."  
  
"It isn't an order," Larnord clarified. "It's a reality."  
  
"Not if I have anything to say about it."  
  
"You don't."  
  
Glaring down at the Mallathorn, Parker snapped, "But I do! I'm standing right here! I'm here! In this timeline! If there is anything I can do to stop this world from coming to an end, then you can bet every inch of your tentacles that I'm going to do it!"  
  
Again displaying an affinity for human gestures, Larnord smiled.  
  
"Frank, I've upset you, and that was not my intention. Will you please allow me to start at the beginning?"  
  
"Will starting from the beginning change the outcome?"  
  
"It may."  
  
"How might it not?"  
  
"That's entirely up to you."  
  
"You know," Parker began, sighing, "I really hate these word games, Larry. Have you spoken with the Olga Vukavitch of this timeline? If she's anything like the Olga Vukavitch from my timeline, then she would already have told you how much I hate word games. Word association. It's a bunch of bunk, if you ask me, and I know you're not going to. Do you know how I know that? It's because ... you're the alien. You're the one with the superior technology." He jerked his head at Larnord. "Oh, you're willing to share and all ... just so long as the entire human race answers to your each and every demand!"  
  
The Mallathorn inclined his head, the tentacles suddenly jerking, dangling loosely about his small neck and chest. "Frank, there are events in motion of which you have no possible conception. I give you my word that my demand – my one simple demand – is of no consequence to you and this world."  
  
"How's that?"  
  
"It isn't for me to say."  
  
"What?"  
  
"Your team," Larnord answered. "Director Talmadge will be more than happy to fill you in once our meeting has adjourned."  
  
Parker cocked an eye. "But you know?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"And you aren't going to tell me, are you?"  
  
"In a manner of speaking, yes. In a manner of speaking, no."  
  
"Larry, did I or did I not just tell you how much I hate word games?"  
  
Immediately, the alien raised a hand. He splayed his long slender fingers out, telling the man to stop. "If you will allow me to speak, then I promise you, Frank: there will be no need for games."  
  
His arms still crossed, Frank Parker kept his mouth closed. Responding, he nodded ... with a slight roll of his eyes.  
  
"Please," the Mallathorn offered, "follow me."  
  
Together, they strolled in the direction of the far wall where the thick metal shelves were mounted to the wall. Parker had noticed them when he entered the alien's chamber. They were lined with books – massive volumes of encyclopedias, tomes from human history, and collections of essays and fiction – stretching as far as he could see into the room. It resembled a library, with much less lighting, and Parker guessed that the alien must've had some discomfort with bright lights.  
  
"Here," it said.  
  
"What?"  
  
Larnord gestured his tentacles toward the wall of books. "This."  
  
"What?" Parker asked again. "The books?"  
  
"Yes," it answered. "The books. These books. This wonderful collection. It's really quite extraordinary, if you consider every event – every thought – every talent that must've happened in the universe for us to be standing here today, together, looking at these books."  
  
"What about 'em?"  
  
"They're grounded in the Dewey Decimal System," it explained.  
  
Reaching out, Parker took a book from the shelf at eye level, and he noticed that the book had been catalogued as though it were placed in a library. There, near the base of the spine, he saw the number: 934.47.  
  
"I never was much of a bookworm, Larry. What of it?"  
  
"Isn't it fascinating?"  
  
Grimacing, the chrononaut returned the book to the shelf. "Fascinating?"  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"Fascinating? No. Useful? Yes."  
  
"Would you agree that it is fascinatingly useful?"  
  
"More than I would it is usefully fascinating."  
  
"That is very funny, Frank."  
  
"You're pushing your luck, Larry."  
  
"Then," the alien tried, "we shall agree that it is useful."  
  
"Look," Parker sighed, "far be it from me to insult your galactic sensibilities, but, in case you've forgotten, there's an entire world outside slowly dying ... if I take you for your word."  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"So ... could we please speed up the science lesson, Mr. Alien?"  
  
"The Dewey Decimal System exemplifies the pervasiveness of your species to bring order to their universe," the Mallathorn announced.  
  
"In English, please."  
  
Slightly frustrated, Larnord matter-of-factly said, "Your people require things a certain way."  
  
"Don't all people want things a certain way?"  
  
"You'll have to trust me on this, Frank. I've traveled to parts of the universe that do not yet exist even in man's imagination. I've been to hundreds of worlds, and I've visited hundreds of societies, and I've yet to encounter another species – one other than Earthlings – more overtly insistent with the natural ordering of ... all things."  
  
"What are you talking about? All things?" Parker asked. "I thought we were talking about books."  
  
"Books are only one example," it agreed. "The fact that you order them ... you classify them ... by author ... by title ... by category ... that is a feat most civilizations find ..." Clearly, the Mallathorn was searching for the correct definition.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Primitive," Larnord finally said.  
  
"Primitive?" Parker asked. "What? What's so primitive about wanting to keep things in order? Don't these other forms of higher intelligences don't believe in books? Can't they read? Look, I know there's always been a problem with literacy, but if you're expecting me to believe that it's Earth's fault, then you're really stretching it, pal."  
  
"No, no, no," it argued. "Of course, every civilization – every society – has the expressed need to bring some form of order to their respective worlds. These races are far more interested in the recording of their histories. They don't engage one another, however, in activities they mutually agree to be frivolous."  
  
"Frivolous? What the hell's so wrong with reading a book?"  
  
"It isn't about the books, Frank," Larnord explained. "It's about the human need to bring order to something as fundamentally simple as a piece of literature."  
  
"What?" the chrononaut protested. "I don't get it, Larry. If you want to read a book, then you have to find it. How are you going to find it without order?"  
  
"Precisely!" the alien almost squealed. "You're making my point for me! The Dewey Decimal System works because it was designed around the human conceit over the ability to constantly locate a single object on a single linear plane." Larnord raised his hands toward the ceiling. "The rest of the cosmos – and I can say this with conviction – is far less concerned with order because they've risen above the need to see things ordered, Frank. Earthlings are far too linear – far too chronological – for their collective good."  
  
"So why don't you and your friends just invade our planet and show us how to re-arrange our libraries?" Parker joked. "Hell, it wouldn't make much of a movie, but it would certainly be a twist on the old 'alien invasion' story that we haven't seen before."  
  
Larnord lowered his arms and pointed at the man. "You, on the other hand, know that events – the peoples, the places – can be re-ordered to fit whatever definition best serves your species."  
  
Parker thought about the concept. His experiences through the BackStep Program had taught him that time was not so much fluid as it was like a hunk of clay. It could – depending upon the circumstances – be hardened into stone ... but, with the application of water, it could begin to lose its shape in order to fashioned into something else. In fact, that's what he understood BackStep to be all about: the reshaping of time ... but didn't it still have to click off on the seconds of a clock? Wasn't the passage of time the most perishable resource in the galaxy, regardless of where you were?  
  
"I don't know, Larry."  
  
"Frank, it is a difficult concept to accept that this life – as you've come to live it – can be ordered by your command, not by the ticking of a clock," Larnord replied.  
  
Surprised, Parker accused, "You read my mind!"  
  
"I sensed your concept."  
  
"What's the difference?"  
  
"One is invasive," the alien reasoned. "The other is merely reflective."  
  
"So you read my mind!" the man shouted.  
  
"Fine," Larnord agreed. "I read your mind. What is so inflammatory?"  
  
"Well, you can stay the hell out of my mind, for one thing!"  
  
"You have my apology, Frank."  
  
"How would you like it if I read your mind?"  
  
"I welcome you to."  
  
"Oh, that's funny," Parker quipped.  
  
"What is funny?"  
  
"Like I can do that! Like I can read your mind!"  
  
Those tentacles dancing, the alien smiled. "There is still time to surprise even yourself."  
  
The chrononaut brushed a hand across the nearest row of books. "Not according to what you said," he tried. "You said that I have to let this world die. If that's the case, then there may not be enough time left for me to surprise myself. Who knows? There may not even be enough time for me to figure out what the hell the Dewey Decimal System has to do with all of this."  
  
Stepping forward, Larnord took Frank's hand, gently tugging at the man, encouraging him to walk. Together, they moved down the long aisle of books.  
  
"The concept is not that very difficult, Frank," it continued. "Let me speak plainly. As you know, Earthlings define their existence based upon the passage of time. You celebrate birthdays. You mourn your dead. You remember important events in your lives based upon when they happened, and it is that very order – the very need to maintain it – expressed in much in the same way that these books are kept ordered on these shelves. One book must come after the other book. You don't think about it. You look for it. It must be in its proper place, and its proper place must be balanced within the universal order of these other volumes. How can you find what you wanted to read if it weren't so?" Glancing up at the higher shelves, Larnord asked, "But what would happen if the book were put back – returned to these shelves – but in the wrong place?"  
  
Strolling along, casually reading the titles as he moved, Parker answered, "Then ... I wouldn't be able to find it."  
  
"But it would still be here?"  
  
"Of course, it would," the man said. "It just ... well ... it wouldn't be where it was supposed to be."  
  
"So," Larnord began, "the book still exist ... it would have it's proper identification in the Dewey Decimal System ... but you still would not be able to locate it?"  
  
"Well," Parker replied, "probably not. At least, I wouldn't be able to find it if I didn't have to do some serious searching. Who knows? If it were put back so horribly wrong, I may never find it in this collection ... especially if I had as many books as you do."  
  
The alien chuckled, and the man was once again amazed at how human the being from another world behaved.  
  
"That is what I have done with this timeline, Frank."  
  
"What?"  
  
Larnord stopped. "I have re-ordered the books."  
  
"These books?"  
  
"Not the books, Frank," it answered. "The events."  
  
Parker narrowed his eyes at the being.  
  
"In your timeline, you went back in time seven days in order to stop the destruction of the Heston Tower," it explained.  
  
Surprised, Parker said, "That's right."  
  
"This may come as a complete shock to you, but if you had done that – if you had stopped the Heston Tower from being destroyed, Frank – the results to your world would have been catastrophic."  
  
Confused, Parker rambled several scenarios through his mind. He knew that the Heston was destroyed, and he knew that the President's loss of a confidante who could help bring peace to the Middle East died ... but ... but how was it possible? It was one event ... and then realization washed over him like an ice cold shower. He cringed. How could the idea – the concept – have evaded him? Because time wasn't so much fluid as it was like clay – the natural ability to take whatever form it needed – changing one event, no matter how significant, affected every possible event that could have, should have, or would have followed.  
  
"I'm not completely certain I understand what you're trying to tell me, Larnord," he finally admitted. "It sounds like you've done some re- arranging of your own ... in this timeline."  
  
"This timeline," the alien explained, "never existed, Frank. Not in any human conception of it, that is. I created it. I took an event – an event that would happen in your timeline – and I sped it up. Like a misplaced book, I put it back on the shelves ... in the wrong order. So ... as you may already understand ... there are events that have occurred here ... in this timeline ... that have not yet come to pass in your world. There are some events, in fact, that are unfolding right now, as we speak, but they are occurring days, weeks, or even months ahead of schedule for your timeline. You see, I fashioned this temporal parallelogram – as your good friend, Dr. Mentnor would call it – for the sole purpose of showing you that had you successfully completed your mission – had you saved the Heston Tower from destruction – then your world would've suffered a horrific fate ... one that would've reshaped the cosmos."  
  
The man took several deep breaths before he uttered, "Whoa."  
  
"Yes," Larnord agreed. "Whoa, indeed. So you see ... you had to come here, Frank. If you hadn't – if I hadn't brought you here – then your world would have inevitably ceased to exist."  
  
"So this timeline," Parker reasoned, mentally reshaping the puzzle in his mind, "never really happened?"  
  
"It did, in the sense that it was one of several hundred thousand possibilities for the outcome of a single moment in history," the alien stated. "As you know by firsthand experience, there are many worlds out there on the temporal plane for you to visit. That's what I mean when I say that your species greatest weakness is its insistence on seeing things in so linear. It isn't shortsightedness on their part of your kind. Rather, it's all you've come to know, so it's all you've come to accept. 'A' happens, and 'A' leads to 'B.' If 'A' didn't happen, then 'B' couldn't happen either. It's linear, and it's wrong. You know that. You've traveled through time, and you know that events can be reshaped. I've only done the same here ... with this timeline. However, in the myriad of available dimensions, this timeline most closely resembled yours ... and that is why I brought you here."  
  
"You brought me here?"  
  
"Yes. I pulled the Sphere across the various continuums to bring you here. As I said, I needed to show you what danger you were inadvertently placing the survival of all mankind in."  
  
"Then ... now that I know ... you'll have no problem putting me back?"  
  
Slowly, Larnord shook his head.  
  
"You're thinking linear again, Frank."  
  
"Screw linear thinking, pal," the chrononaut argued. "I've heard all I'm going to hear about linear thinking!"  
  
"You haven't thought this through."  
  
"Look, we're talking about my life, here!" Parker planted his hands firmly on his waist. "And it's not only about me! We're talking about the lives of the people I've come to know, the people I love! I'm not going to sacrifice them for this little science experiment of yours!"  
  
"There is sacrifice in all things, Frank."  
  
"But if I can't save this world because you've re-ordered the natural chain of events, then I want to go back to mine so that I can make sure that the Heston Tower is destroyed ... and ... well ... and then I'll learn whatever it is I need to learn in order to keep my timeline from putting the cosmos at risk."  
  
"It isn't that simple, Frank."  
  
"But, Larry, how am I going to get home?"  
  
"In order for you to return to your proper timeline, Frank," the alien explained, "you'll have to find your own way."  
  
END of Chapter 33 


	34. Chapter 34

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 34

Five Days, Sixteen Hours, Twenty-One Minutes

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have pictures!"

A chorus of cheers from the White House War Room personnel erupted, quickly drowning out Nathan Ramsey's announcement. The technicians rose from their chairs and began applauding as the Director of Security for the NSA's BackStep Program began uploading the complex series of satellite photography into the room's protected mainframe. Immediately, Stoddard ordered the photographs encrypted as top level ELINT – Electronic Intelligence – and directed others to forward them, via secure email connections, to the Presidential bunker, the Pentagon, the NSA, the FBI, and CIA Headquarters down in Langley. There was no doubt in the Chief of Staff's mind that – over the course of the next several hours – these several hundred photographs – provided as a gesture of good faith on the part of Nate Ramsey's 'secret Russian source' only known as Yuri – would be viewed, copied, analyzed, and re-analyzed in hundreds if not thousands of different ways by every possible expert on the government's payroll. Equally, there was no doubt that the resulting reports would be conflicting, as was too often the case when it came to interdepartmental cooperation, but, in the very least, the President would now be able to strategize a response based on facts, not threats ... and facts had been in chillingly short supply since Senator Pendley had locked down the nation's own satellite defense grid.

"We're quickly coming up on that first deadline, Ethan," Colonel McGinty offered, taking a spot at the chief's side, standing opposite Ramsey.

"Easy, Travis, but we have to let these men and women do their jobs."

"How long might that take?" The man gestured at the bank of computer monitors, all of them flickering with the recently uploaded images. "Pendley didn't give us a lot of wiggle room. You know as well as I do that we're on a very tight schedule."

"I know," Stoddard agreed, "but first things first. There may be something here – some small piece of information that offers a greater hope – and I want to assure the President that we've at least looked for it."

"You're talking about a needle," McGinty countered, "not in a single haystack, Ethan, but in several hundred."

Stoddard nodded, his eyes fixed on the same monitors. "True, but if we can give our own experts just enough time to analyze these photos ... if we can get some type of preliminary information to the Joint Chiefs with even a few minutes to spare ... then, from a tactical standpoint, we're in a far better position than we were a few hours ago. Let's keep our spirits up, Travis. Right now, that's all we have." Turning, the man added, "And, once again, this country owes you a debt of gratitude, Mr. Ramsey."

Shrugging, the director scoffed at the compliment. "Nonsense, sir. I'm just doing my part for the entire team. I've always been a team player, and that's why Bradley had me come in here."

Smiling, Stoddard said, "I appreciate modesty as much as the next politician, but trust me when I say that we could use a man with your connections in Washington."

Ramsey sniffed. "Well, sir, that's flattering ...

"I'm completely serious."

"... but, really, I can't say that I'm interested."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm very happy serving under Director Talmadge on the BackStep Program," he confessed. "You know ... it's always been a dream of mine to ... I'm hoping that, one day, I'll get a promotion to run the entire show out there in Nevada. Bradley won't be around forever, and, once he decides to retire, you'll need someone with the experience to step up and take charge. I've always seen myself in that role. So, if it's all the same to you, I'll sit tight where I'm at ... for the time being."

"Really?" Stoddard locked eyes briefly with the man. "It was my understanding that, for a very long time, you had some very strong reservations about the way Bradley was conducting BackStep."

Ramsey was confused. "Sir?"

"Need I drop the name Frank Parker?"

Reddening, the director chuckled. "Well, Frank Parker is a whole carton of eggs I don't want to open. Personally, I think Parker's eggs have been scrambled, but I won't deny that all of us have experienced a fleeting moment of relief to have him back for this mission."

With a smirk, Stoddard asked, "A fleeting moment of relief?"

Ramsey bit back his intended retort, and, instead, tried, "Besides, Parker's been gone for some time, sir, and the program has done just fine without him."

"He's back now."

"Yes, well ..."

In that moment, Ramsey realized what Stoddard was implying, and he was personally surprised that the thought hadn't occurred to him earlier. Parker had, in fact, returned. He was involved with this BackStep mission. But ... he wasn't the right Parker ... he wasn't the Parker intended for this timeline ... or was it? Once everything was safe and sound, wouldn't Parker simply BackStep out of this timeline and back into his own? Or is it ...

No.

It couldn't be.

It shouldn't be.

"Sir," Ramsey began, "you're not saying ... you're not saying that the President or the NSA would actually consider the prospect of keeping Frank Parker in this timeline ... are you?"

Stoddard raised an eyebrow. "President Campbell did reactivate Parker's status for participation in this mission ... but, no, Mr. Ramsey, I'm not jumping to any conclusions. I don't think any of us should. There are far too many variables for me to consider, at this point, to draw any predictions." He looked away toward the technicians scurrying about the flatscreen monitors, and he added, "The fact remains that Frank Parker was and quite possibly remains our last best hope for the BackStep Program to survive."

"But Michelson ..."

"Don't get me wrong," the chief interrupted, placing a hand on the man's shoulder. "I don't believe anyone's position is in jeopardy. I've followed the BackStep Program very closely. I know Parker's work, and I know Michelson's work. Yes, there are many men and women within the Washington elite who consider Channing Michelson a far better chrononaut than Frank Parker ever was ... but they're only seeing one piece of a very large puzzle." He let his hand slip back to his side. "Parker's track record in mission completion is much higher. He also has a considerably higher tolerance for pain, one of the prerequisites for enduring the physical stress associated to time travel. Sure, he's a wild card, at times, but you'll have to take my word when I say that the NSA Oversight Committee has been far more willing to look the other way on more than one occasion when it comes to Parker's antics and insubordination. That's something I think you should seriously consider before you make the trip back to Nevada ... once this whole affair can be put behind us."

Slightly perplexed at the unexpected prospect of going backward in his career, Ramsey nodded. "I will, sir. Thank you for the advice."

Grinning, Isaac Mentnor eased his way through the technicians hustling about to review the pictures, and he made his way over to the small group.

"Nathan, these photos are tremendous," he said.

"It looks that way, Isaac," Ramsey agreed. "I guess Yuri really can through in a pinch for the ole Red, White, and Blue. I'll make sure he's duly compensated."

"Of course ... but, in the meantime, I need your help."

The director faced his BackStep colleague. "What is it, Isaac?"

"I'd like you to have a separate copy of all the photographs loaded onto my personal hard drive back at the BackStep servers," he announced. "I'm logged into our system locally, but I'd hoping to review some of these images with our temporal thermographic portal."

"The temporal ... why would you need to do that?" He gestured toward the nearest monitor where four satellites photographs – all very similar in color and design – were posted on the monitor. "What we're looking at isn't BackStep data, Isaac. This is run-of-the-mill satellite photography. As a matter of fact, some of them are thermal images already. What would the temporal portal tell us?"

The scientist smiled weakly. "I don't know that they would necessarily show us anything different than what our Washington counterparts will eventually deduce, but there are some ... well ... let's just say that there are several images that warrant a review against our science, not Washington's."

Curious, Ramsey leaned forward.

Holding up his hands, the scientist tried to soften his concerns. "Nathan, I don't want to alarm anyone ..."

"Dr. Mentnor?" Stoddard interrupted.

"Yes, sir?"

"Isaac, we're working against a very tight schedule with this terrorist plot – we need to meet the first demand very soon – and I can't stress enough how valuable your entire team's cooperation has been. If there is something we should know – however remote you may believe it to be – now is the time to confide in us."

Smiling, Mentnor stated, "It may be nothing."

"In my line of work, doctor, I wouldn't consider the input of any scientist to be 'nothing.'"

Shrugging, Mentnor added, "I'm an old man, after all. I may be confusing some of these images with ... well, with data from the past. As you know, I haven't exactly been part of BackStep ... for some time. What I've seen – well, what I believe I've seen in several of these photographs – is based on some of my very early research with the Sphere ... some of the possible effects of altering the timestream as well as effects on people."

"People?"

"Us," he said. "Our current selves. Our future selves. More importantly ... the effects on the chrononaut. Respectfully, sir, without taking a closer look, I wouldn't want to alarm you unnecessarily."

"Isaac, what is it?"

The scientist grew silent as he stared at the faces around him. After several moments, he gestured toward a rear console – one far away from the current activity – obviously trying to insure the privacy of his remarks. McGinty started to protest, stepping forward, but Stoddard laid a hand on him, turning him about, and steered him in the direction Mentnor had indicated. Slowly, the group walked away from the War Room technicians, and they took up a small circle away from the noise.

"Dr. Mentnor," Stoddard insisted, "we're all ears."

He cleared his throat before beginning. "Gentlemen, you have to understand that there were several of us assigned to the program who committed, literally, thousands of hours of research in the field of temporal mechanics long before we ever dreamed of launching the first BackStep mission. What we learned – in short – was that time travel is a science all of its own. There is – in any human frame of reference – absolutely nothing else like it ... at least, not for comparison's sake. What we learned from that research, we poured into the program. Every possible variable was discussed, disassembled, and re-assembled to fit the needs of what we theorized could happen, not what we knew would happen. We called ourselves 'Columbus' because we really were much like any intrepid explorer, leaving behind the comfort, calm, and safety of the shoreline in search of only God or Fate knew what."

McGinty shifted, craning his neck from side to side and tugging at the lapels of his uniform. "Doctor, with all due respect ... this can't be good."

"I'm not saying its good or bad, colonel," Mentnor replied, meeting the man's steely glare. "In fact, I'm not prepared to say anything. You have to understand ... when the program began, we placed every bit of fact, fiction, and speculation into creating an operational profile for what BackStep operations would look like. Harnessing an alien technology was the least of our concerns; the effect on the chrononaut, however, was of the greatest importance."

"What do you mean?" Stoddard asked.

"Time travel requires a form of energy previously unknown to man," Mentnor continued. "Yes, we recovered the wreckage of a saucer from the Roswell incident. Yes, we were able to obtain a fundamental understanding of the craft that crossed light years of outer space by manipulating layers of time instead of soaring across those great distances. Yes, these pilots were uniquely gifted with the ability to harness this source of energy, to make it work, and to reach our world in only a fraction of the time that it would take our astronauts to perform the same task ... but our bodies couldn't.

"You see, a chrononaut is exposed to massive amounts of ... well ... let's call it temporal radiation. In small, controlled doses, it isn't life threatening, but our cells aren't nearly as durable as those of the alien pilots. We're ... we're softer, if you will. As a result – you can review all of the medical records on Frank Parker and Channing Michelson's personnel files to verify what I'm telling you – our chrononauts are given a standard protective suit to wear while flying the Sphere from one point in time back seven days. Despite this protection, there are still ruptures ... bleeding from the soft tissue around the eyes ... bleeding from possible recent dermal wounds ... even occasional or intermittent bleeding from the tissue in the mouth or the nasal membranes. This is caused by exposure to the temporal radiation contained within the Sphere. Quite frankly, there's no way we can counter it or stop it. Simply put, our bodies were not designed in the same way as our alien counterparts."

Stoddard's expression grew dark. "What are you saying, doctor?"

The man took a deep breath. "One of the principal safeguards that made time travel possible for us is the Sphere," he explained. "You see, the temporal energy is safely contained – it's locked inside the Sphere along with the resulting temporal radiation – where it harms only the chrononaut. This energy has a very distinct signature when measured against the thermal profiling we created at Area 51. We measured it, from time to time, to make absolutely certain that there were no leaks from the Sphere that would endanger the base crew. Fortunately, there never were."

From inside his jacket, Mentnor produced a small printout of one of the satellite photos. "It appears to me that this energy that struck Mr. Hightower was not a particle beam, as I had thought. Rather, I believe it to be a blast of temporal energy not terribly unlike that which we use to propel the Sphere." He held up the photo for the small group to see. "This thermal image, I believe, is remarkably similar to readings maintained in my early files back at NeverNeverLand, and, if that is the case, then I can reasonably conclude that this attack – this blast – was a controlled burst of temporal energy."

Ramsey reached out and took the photo. "You mean ... what hit Alaska was a focused shot of temporal energy ... outside of the protective containment of a BackStep Sphere ... and it was directed at the surface of our planet?"

Emphatically, Mentnor nodded. "Precisely."

Ramsey's shoulders sank.

"What does that mean?" Stoddard pried, noticing the change in the man's composure. "I still don't understand. What can it do? I assume we're talking about some environmental effect. It can't be anything more than that ... can it? I mean, what are we considering here, gentlemen? Storms? Some kind of limited change of climate in the effected area? What?"

"I'm talking about ruptures in our surface," the scientist repeated. "Temporal energy was never meant to be used as a weapon, gentlemen. It was meant for good, but it could only be used for good if it was kept within a safe, contained environment specifically to limit the effects of exposure to a single person. So ... what can you expect?" Mentnor shrugged but kept his aura of seriousness. "Instead of the chrononaut suffering these ruptures, our planet will. I've no way to predict what will happen, but, as a scientist, I can tell you what I suspect." He cleared his throat. "You can expect earthquakes ... brought about by volcanic activity and subtle movements of the tectonic plates located near every major fault-line around the globe. I'm talking about the total annihilation of our Earthly landscape."

He blinked several times, mentally searching for the words, before he added, "I'm talking about a kind of Armageddon – launched by an uncompromising Mother Nature – that will literally rip this planet apart unless we find a way to stop this madman from using his own personal Doomsday Machine right this instant."

END of Chapter 34


	35. Chapter 35

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 35

Five Days, Fifteen Hours, Forty Minutes

Arthur Pendley shook himself awake from a fitful nap. He knew he needed to catch up on so much missed sleep these last few days, but the excitement of the moment – the culmination of years of planning every detail to his personal missives – kept his from truly falling into a deep, needed slumber. He brought one hand up, brushing it across his eyes, and craned his neck, hearing the vertebrae in his neck pop. A welcome 'snap' of relief sent shivers down his spine. Certainly, the limo wasn't his first choice for a catnap, but the vehicle – parked on the edge of Anacostia Park – was the safest alternative at this point: he trusted he was being followed, and he wasn't about to lead the Secret Service back to Heston Tower. No. That wouldn't be a prudent move. That would spell certain doom far too soon.

Would he get away with this? He didn't know. He stopped second-guessing his agenda years ago. In fact, he was surprised that he was allowed to divert so much of the United States' appropriations to his personal project. The reality was that the government funded far too much waste, and, eventually, some insipid bean counter at the General Accounting Office would probably uncover his scheme. At this point, however, it really didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He was finished with embezzling from Uncle Sam. His weapon was complete. His hideout was the stuff of science fiction. But ... it was his, and he refused to endanger it by leading them back to it.

Tired, he glanced down at his watch. Roughly, two hours remained for the White House and the President to grant him his first demand – control of FEMA – and then he would continue to squeeze more and more out of them until he had operational control of the world's only remaining superpower. The things he could do then? Even he couldn't imagine all of them.

His Blackberry hummed from the holster on his waist. Easily, he tugged it and brought it up to his face in the darkness of the limo. He activated the lit screen and opened the email.

W.H. HAS SAT. PHOTOS THRU FORMER SOVIET GOVT, he read. BACKSTEP PERPS ON SITE. INVESTIGATING THREAT TO USE OF EXPOSED TEMPORAL ENERGY. ADVISE AT YOUR CONVENIENCE.

He smiled. He knew it would be a matter of time before the President started pulling in key strategists from across the government's payroll, but Campbell had to given credit: the response was much quicker than Pendley ever believed the U.S. could mobilize. Maybe these fifty free states were worth defending, after all.

Deleting the email, he switched functions to the wireless telephone, calling up his phone list and dialing his military contact. He listened patiently as the phone rang three times and then someone answered.

"Chamberlin," the voice said curtly.

"The light is green, colonel," Pendley told him.

"Sir?"

"You heard me," the senator insisted. "I've given you what you so often have desired ... the chance to take your place in American history. Don't think you're going to fail me, colonel. I picked you specifically for this assignment because I'm well aware of your – shall we say – capabilities. Where is your team?"

"They're in place, sir."

"Then, make haste. You know what needs to be done."

"Of course ... but, as you suspected," the colonel began, "the White House made a move to protect the Mallathorn."

"That is a contingency of absolutely no consequence for which I believe you're far more than adequately prepared."

"Yes ... and no."

"Colonel?"

"From what I've been told, there are representatives of BackStep with the alien now."

Confused, the senator sat forward. "BackStep?" he asked.

"BackStep?"

"That's correct."

"Colonel, I'm of the understanding that the BackStep Team is currently advising Chief of Staff Ethan Stoddard, but you're telling me that they're at the Pentagon speaking with the Mallathorn. What could they possibly want with the alien?"

"Sir, it gets a ... a bit more confusing."

"Yes?"

"I've been told that ... I've been told that Frank Parker is in private chambers with the Mallathorn."

A flush of cold washed over Arthur Pendley, and it was the type of chill he had long despised: the threat of total, complete, utter, miscalculated surprise.

"Colonel ... did you say 'Frank Parker'?"

"Yes, sir."

The senator shook his head. "That's impossible."

"I know, sir."

"I don't think you do," the man stated quickly. "Frank Parker is dead. He has been for a few years now. You and I both know that he died on September 11th. I'm not going to sit here and listen to sheer nonsense, not when the goal of our achievements is so close at hand. There is no possible way that he could be ..."

"Senator," the colonel interrupted, "I'm providing you with the precise information that has been given to me. Now, I've been told that the BackStep Team was recalled from Nevada. I've been told that they touched down in the capital earlier today. I've been told that Talmadge and several of his colleagues are trying to obtain some vital intel from Craig Donovan who apparently has been working on some leads in conjunction with the D.C. police. I've been told that Nathan Ramsey and Dr. Isaac Mentnor were called to the White House. Also, as I've said, I've been told that Frank Parker was ordered – with specific instructions from the Mallathorn himself – to report to the Pentagon." The man cleared his throat. "Sir, I'm not telling you that I've seen Frank Parker. I'm only passing along what I've been told."

Pendley took a deep breath. He knew Frank Parker, not personally but through his profession. He knew the man was a wild card. The first successful chrononaut could not be trusted to complete a mission – not so far as the senator was concerned – but the man had far too many heroic impulses to suddenly become a variable once again in the middle of this whole affair. Pendley pulled his lips taut against his teeth as he exhaled in disgust.

"Then," he finally announced, "assume the rumor of Frank Parker's resurrection is little more than false presumption, and – as I'm telling you, colonel – the light is green. You and your men are already in position ... unless I dramatically overestimated your command abilities."

"We are in position, senator."

"Then storm the facility," the man ordered. "I want you to take it by force – which I know from your personal service record you're quite capable of exhibiting – and do what's necessary."

"The Mallathorn?"

"You and I both know that the President will never authorize the use of deadly force against that nuisance," Pendley deduced. "Colonel, I want you to kill that ... thing ... kill it yourself. If it means using your own two hands to strangle it, then make it so."

"Understood, sir."

Pendley relaxed in his seat. "Report back to me once you've taken care of it."

"Of course ... but what about Parker?"

Pendley turned his head slightly to glance out the rear window of the limo. There, down the street, was a parked sedan that undoubtedly contained Secret Service agents who were dispatched from the White House to follow him. He wasn't about to lead them anywhere. Not until he had the chance to put his operation into full play.

"If he is alive, colonel, then think of it as an added benefit for you and I," the man said. "Kill Parker, along with the Mallathorn. As a matter of fact, kill every meddling member of the BackStep Team that you encounter. I want you perfectly clear on this, colonel. Every single member of the Mallathorn's support staff and any member of the human race who've come into contact with that thing ... I want all of dead."

END of Chapter 35


	36. Chapter 36

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 36

Five Days, Fifteen Hours, Eighteen Minutes

"I don't know about you, miss," Ebdon Finkle announced, his eyes fixed on the massive steel containment door that separated them from Frank Parker and the alien, "but I'm not liking this one bit."

Dr. Nina Welles opened her eyes at the sound of the old man's voice. She had been trying to catch a quick nap – all of them had been awake for far too long – but she was troubled by these events – by all that she had seen from Frank Parker's arrival to the death and suffering of any good person. She was so troubled that her mind leapt from image to image, keeping her awake. Still, she trusted that she needed her energy, and only sleep would give her the strength to continue.

"What do you mean, Mr. Finkle?" she offered, righting herself on the leather couch beside him. She blinked her eyes several times, forcing herself more fully awake, and she turned to face the man.

"Ebdon," he reminded her.

She smiled. "Of course."

"Frank," he replied succinctly.

"What about him?"

Finkle nodded at the door. "He's been in there for some time with that ... well ... with that alien of yours."

"Of mine?"

The old man met her gaxe with his own. "You work for the government, too. Don't you?"

She thought about his question before responding. "I do, but, where I'm assigned, I have very little to do with the BackStep Program and those in Washington who call the shots," she confessed. "Yes, I have been dispatched to several locations to contain the threat of temporal exposure, but I've never met the Mallathorn."

He poked his head in the direction of the door. "Here's your chance."

She wrinkled her brow in confusion.

"What say you and me just slip inside and say our 'hellos' just so we can find out what Matador is telling Frank."

Chuckling, she reached over and laid a hand on Ebdon's arm. "That's Mallathorn!"

"Malla what?"

"Mallathorn," she corrected. "The name of the alien species is Mallathorn, not Matador."

"Is that what I said?"

Sinking back into the couch a bit, she wondered about what it would be like to meet the alien. Of course, she had heard of him. Several members – friends much higher up in the command structure than she was – had actually held conference with the member from another world back after the events of September 11th. As she understood, that burst of temporal energy is what brought the creature here from across the stars, and, in the US government's bid to establish peaceful coexistence with the being, key personnel were pulled from all branches of service to meet with the 'ambassador,' as he had been called. Larnord had requested these representatives, as she recalled, in order to reach a far better conceptualization of how the government worked, what the various branches did, the goals each division served. At that time, she was on the fast track for promotion with the Centers for Disease Control, but she was far removed from the movers and shakers who would make the United States 'A List' for meeting with an emissary from an alien culture. However, not long after her boss had returned, she was promoted to the Temporal Threat Response Team – TTRT, or 'Treat,' as it was known around the offices. Now, recalling all of the events that happened so quickly after the Mallathorn's arrival, she couldn't help but wonder: was her selection based purely on merit ... was her promotion merely coincidence ... or was there something more? Could it possibly be that Larnord – an extraterrestrial presence schooled in the science of time travel – knew of what importance her service could be in the days following her promotion? Did her mention her by name, ordering her superiors to promote her, so that she could be here – in this very scenario on this very day in this very room – to help those most closely associated with Earth's time travel operations avert some major catastrophe? She had told herself long ago that she didn't believe in coincidence, and, were that the case, then it was possible ... but how? There were far too many variables, she decided, for any single being to calculate which moves would place her in the here and now, but she refused to force herself to believe that were the case. For now, she accepted that she was here, and she pushed any further notion as far from theoretical tinkering as she could.

"You're wondering about the nature of these events," she heard.

Nina and Ebdon turned to face David Jennings. With a grin, he sat in a chair next to their comfortable couch. In his lap, he held several pages of documents for review, but his attention had been redirected at the two of them.

"I beg your pardon?" she tried.

"Today," Jennings offered, still smiling. "You're both wondering how it could possibly be that you're here ... now ... with Mr. Parker and the Mallathorn."

Finkle shook his head. "Actually, I'm just sitting here wondering if the United States government spent every dime of this construction and there wasn't enough left over to buy any of us something to eat."

Laughing, Jennings waved a hand toward one of his colleagues, and the white-coated man disappeared through a side door, off on a mission to bring all of them some nourishment.

"You don't have to understand," the man offered the two of them. "I gave up on trying to understand a long time ago."

"Understand what?" Finkle asked. "That time is no constant? That events aren't fixed like a fence post stuck in the ground for everyone to see the same way?"

Nina was surprised to learn that Ebdon was sitting next to her having almost exactly all of the same thoughts that she was.

"You want to know why you're here," Jennings said. "Were you chosen, or was all of this – Mr. Parker's return, his invitation to meet with the Mallathorn – was all of this pure chance?"

"Ain't no such thing as chance," Ebdon told the young man.

"I'm glad you think so."

"I know so." The old man sniffed at the idea. "The fact of the matter is pretty simple ... well, once you reach my age, I think it is."

"What's that, Ebdon?"

He sat back on the couch, once again turning to stare at the massive steel door. "There's a saying about life being like a deck of cards. You know? You play the hand you're dealt. That kind of thing. If you believe that, then you have to know that there are constants. In every deck, there are four kings. Two of them are red. Two of them are black. One diamond, one heart, one spade, and one club. That's a constant. It never changes no matter how many decks of cards you might look at. But the fun of the game is the fact that the constants keep changing places and changing hands. Every time you deal a new hand, the cards get shuffled. Sure, the first time, you might get one king, and it helps you take whatever money has been put into the kitty. The second time? There's no guarantee that you'll have the exact same cards, and, statistically, it's nearly unthinkable." When he realized that the door wasn't opening any time soon, he turned back to the two of them. "Despite what that alien might tell you and the government, Mr. Jennings, there are constants. The fact of the matter is that they can all be shuffled into a new order every time you deal."

Jennings smiled. "Why, Mr. Finkle," he offered warmly, "you're saying exactly what the Mallathorn would say ... despite the metaphor."

Pursing his lips together, the old man nodded. "Yes," he agreed, "I thought I would ... but that doesn't make me an 'alien,' if you catch my drift."

* * *

The soldier stood completely still in the dim recess of the Pentagon's corridor. He listened to the soft clicks growing louder – tick, tack, tick – footsteps on the solid marble floor becoming more pronounced with each beat, and he knew that someone was approaching his position. Flattening his body to the wall, he waited. Concentrating on the steps, he closed his eyes. Tick. Whoever it was moved one step closer. Tick. Even closer still. Tick. Based on the sound, he guessed the person to be no more than ten feet away. Tick. Working off of statistical averages, he knew the average stride of an adult male was between four and six feet, and that meant that – with a single step – the approaching worker was now five feet away.

TICK.

Pulling up his rifle, he lunged from the darkness of the recess and stepped into the lit corridor. Using the butt of his weapon, he cracked the white-coated male across the left side of his skull, splitting the skin of the scalp under the layer of black hair, and forcing the head aside. The man went limp, his neck snapping violently, and he closed his eyes, slowly bending at the knees and waist, his legs slipping out from under him, and he crashed solidly to the floor, unconscious from the blow.

Glancing up the hallway, he found that the man – his victim – had been alone. There was no other activity, save his, in the light.

"Position secure," he assuredly announced into his neck microphone.

"Affirmative," Colonel Chamberlin said. "The light is green, people. Go for the nest. Repeat: go for the nest."

* * *

"You misunderstand me, Frank," the Mallathorn explained, glancing up into the chrononaut's dark eyes. "I'm not saying that I've made this reality for the sole purpose of destroying it. I've only co-opted this existence so that I could bring you to a better understanding of the greater good."

"You're playing with peoples' lives," Parker argued angrily. "Your own! Mine! The people who live in this reality! I refuse to believe that all of them – you included – have to die in order for other worlds – other realities – to live! I just can't believe it!"

"It isn't for you to believe, Frank," the alien said, the tentacles of his head bobbing as he spoke. "It simply ... is."

"Then I'll stop it."

"You can't."

"I'll find a way."

"There is no way," the Mallathorn insisted softly.

"I'll find one!"

"You'll waste all of your effort looking for something that which does not exist, Frank," it explained, its voice growing with concern. "I've given you this chance. I've granted you this opportunity. Don't waste it with an exercise in futility."

Disgusted, Parker held up his hands. "But you've re-arranged the constants!"

Tilting his head, Larnord made a decidedly human expression. Its nose crinkled, and he fixed his eyes on the man. "I do not understand."

"You said so yourself, Larry," Parker tried. He marched over to the nearest bookshelf. Reaching up, he pulled out a book – some title regarding Quantum Physics for the modern thinker – and he immediately switched it with another volume – a tome named 'The Rapture of Law.' "All you've done is taken the events – you call them events, and I'm calling them constants – and you've re-ordered them."

The alien took a step closer to where the chrononaut stood. "What are you saying, Frank?"

The man defiantly stuck his hands to his waist, suddenly aware that he stood there in front of the first acknowledged visitor from another world and Parker was only wearing scrubs as though he were little more than a hospital orderly.

"You said you've re-ordered this universe."

"Not the universe," the alien corrected, holding up a single spindly finger, "but the events of this reality."

"Well," Parker said, "I'm going to put them back."

"You can't."

"Sure, I can," he debated flatly. "If you can take them out of order, then I have to find a way to put them back. It'll have to work. I'll just figure to put A before B and B before C, and then this world – this reality – will have a chance to survive."

"Frank, the manipulation of temporal energy isn't as simple as that. You – of all Earthlings – should know that."

"I do," the man replied, "but I also know that there's a purpose behind every event. There's a thread that holds together every tapestry, and I swear to you, Larry: I'll find it."

"Frank, please," the Mallathorn insisted, "there are far more important tasks for a man of your talents ..."

"I'm telling you, Larry, that I'm going to find it!"

* * *

His rifle raised, Lieutenant Tyrone Adams crept forward.

He hated the fact that he had used brutal force against the scientist – where was the man heading anyway? – but he had a duty to perform. The Pentagon housed an alien – the Mallathorn – and, according to Colonel Chamberlin, the alien had been targeted for assassination. Why? Adams didn't know. It wasn't his job to know, to understand the complexity behind the orders issued. He, after all, was an American soldier. As such, he would follow the missives laid out for him by his commanding officer. He had served under Chamberlin for most of his years stateside. His stint in the first Desert Storm had brought him to the colonel's attention, and he found himself immediately re-assigned to the Pentagon – through some nods by the folks at the NSA – to serve various covert agendas of Dark Squadron.

Smirking at the term, Adams knew that Dark Squadron – an offshoot of FEMA – was only a rumor within the Washington elite. Years ago when he was a fresh recruit, his commanding officer had made mention to the fact that a top secret group of trained men and women served the Pentagon in such a unique capacity, but he dismissed the story as rubbish. He chalked it off as just another side effect of the 'Black Budget' concerns that came up from conspiracy nuts and Congressmen and women who believed that there were two governments in play within the United States. First, the conventional government included the three branches – executive, legislative, and judicial – and these were the folks who were intended to be the 'movie star' class of the nation's structure. These people were elected to their posts. They proudly served the constituents. Many of them became career politicians – a disgrace to the structure once implied by the country's forefathers – and that's what brought about the second government: the Dark Government ... or, as he had once heard them referred to, the 'Elders.' These men and women were the real ruling elite. They worked in concert with similar factions from principal governments all around the world. They operated from a hidden agenda. They kept a low profile – the hint of a shadow – and were rarely, if ever, spoken of in the news, within an investigative report, and certainly not around water coolers across these United States. These people knew how the world operated behind closed doors, and they selected their own through an exhaustive screening process. Their might – or their most nefarious deeds – were executed by the best of the military's best: Dark Squadron. These soldiers existed within every discipline, throughout every profession, around the globe. They were called upon and given orders only when needed. When these men and women weren't on active duty serving the Elders, then they were foreclosing a loan, they were performing routine surgery, or they were defending American interests abroad through the use of military might. No one in Tyrone Adams' family knew he was a member of Dark Squadron: if they did, they would've been eliminated for fear that someday, somehow, in some unforeseen way, that person would speak about the squad or the Elders ... and some secrets are best kept secret.

Chamberlin had been his commanding officer for long enough that Adams knew to never so much as second-guess an order to kill ... even when that order is directed at what he trusted was a supreme being from an alien race. So far as Adams was concerned, the alien had it coming, and Adams was personally pleased to be part of the team assembled to accomplish such a daunting challenge.

Focusing on his duty, he took another step forward, reaching up with a single finger and tripping off the safety of his assault rifle.

'Someone is about to die,' he told himself.

* * *

Ebdon, Nina, and Jennings were still debating about the nature of truth or coincidence when the lights in the chamber suddenly flickered out only to seconds later be replaced by a glow that bathed everything in sight under an even crimson.

"What in the hell ..." the old man tried, but, before he could finish the sentence, Jennings sprang into action. He rose from the chair and then crouched in front of it. With his fist, he rapped onto the arm, and the upholstered panel at the bottom of the chair fell away, revealing a bank of concealed weapons. Reaching inside, he pulled out a silver .9 millimeter, cocked the lever, and holstered it in his beltline. He grabbed two more pistols from the compartment, and then he snapped the trapdoor shut.

"What is it?" Nina asked, rising to stand next to him.

"The proximity sensors have been triggered," Jennings explained flatly.

"Which means what, exactly?" Ebdon asked, standing next to the two of them.

"We're in a highly secured area of the Pentagon," the blonde man said. "In order to protect the Mallathorn from possible harm or abduction, all of the personnel assigned to this project have been fitted with a micro transmitter surgically implanted into the base of the skull. It's state-of-the-art biotechnology not available in any public forum of any kind, so there's no way the frequency or the work can be duplicated. If someone without a transmitter breaks our scanning perimeter, then we're immediately alerted to the presence."

"So the alarm means ..."

"Someone is coming for the Mallathorn."

Wincing in pain, Parker raised his hands to his ears.

"Argh!" he spat, crouching a bit, covering his ears. "Larry! What is that? What's that sound?"

Immediately, the Mallathorn lifted off the ground – apparently by his own devices – and ... hovered.

"What?" Parker snapped. "You can travel through time and you can float in mid-air, too?"

"I'm sorry, Frank," the alien replied. "I should have warned you about my abilities."

"No, no," the chrononaut told the small creature. "Come to think of it, I'd rather not know ... but what the hell is that noise?"

Quickly, the Mallathorn raised one of his tentacles, and the cord whipped in the air. Over the squealing alarm, Parker barely made out the audible 'crack' of a circuit breaker being flipped telekinetically by the alien. To the man's relief, the alarm stopped.

"Holy Hell!" Parker tried, lowering his hands to his side. "When you build an alarm, you really build an alarm!"

"Our proximity has been breached."

"Breached?"

Parker stood upright. He glanced in the direction of the glass port that separated this massive room from the others, and he watched as a thick steel plate suddenly appeared. It slide out of the ceiling joints and lowered over the window, effectively sealing them of from anyone's view.

"Breached how?"

"I do not know," the Mallathorn answered.

"Breached by whom?"

"I do not know that, either."

"Then we've got to get out of here," Parker explained. "I have friends out there."

"They will be safe," the alien cautioned.

"Not if this place has been surrounded."

Its tentacles quivering as if from some display of emotion, the alien glanced over at him quickly. "I have a feeling that you may be right."

Jennings pushed Nina Welles and Ebdon Finkle toward the airlock.

"Here," he said, pointing toward the compression hallway that joined the outer chamber with the alien's subterranean hideout. "You'll be safe in here."

"How do we know that?" Nina asked.

"Because I'll seal it behind you," the blonde countered. "If someone has managed to break our perimeter, then they certainly are going to be heavily armed."

Instinctively, the man held up the other handguns he had pulled from the secret compartment under his chair. "Do you know how to use these?" he asked.

Ebdon took them both. He handed one to Nina, and then he pulled back the lever to ensure that a single bullet was loaded into the chamber.

"It's been a few years," the old man offered, "but I've always said most things are like riding a bike, if you know what I mean."

"Then ... Mr. Finkle, I'm holding you responsible for keeping this woman safe."

Protesting, Nina barked, "I can take care of myself!" She braced the pistol firmly in her hand and cocked the lever, as well. Flipping off the safety, she brought the .9 millimeter up to shoulder height. "But we're not going anywhere, David! We're going to stand with you, and we're going to help you send these intruders back to wherever they came from!"

The man smiled. "I do appreciate your offer, Nina, but this matter is not subject to debate." He pressed a button, and the massive steel door towered open. "I'll need you to step into the chamber, if you please."

"David, wait!"

"Now!"

With reasonable force, he pushed her into Ebdon, and the two visitors tumbled into the airlock.

As efficiently as she could, Nina righted herself – placing one hand on Ebdon's shoulder – and she started back toward the open doorway.

"Now, just a minute ..." she bellowed.

It was too late. Jennings smiled at the two of them, waving with his gun hand, as the steel structure swung at them, finally locking into place and sealing them inside the airlock, safe from what was about to happen.

END of Chapter 36


	37. Chapter 37

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 37

Five Days, Fifteen Hours, Ten Minutes

Under the cover of darkness, Matthew led Richard DeMarco through the DC neighborhoods back to the safety of the Thirteen Stripes Delicatessen. Lisa met them at the door, unbolting it, and, together, they all walked into the back and down the concealed staircase to the lair beneath the streets. On his way past the massive refrigeration locker, Matthew stopped and took a chilled bottle of wine. Lisa found three glasses, and they sat silently as a group, sipping the wine.

DeMarco finished his glass first. Satisfied, he rose and pulled his shirt over his head, taking off the black form-fitting nylon and throwing it toward a corner.

"Burn everything," he said.

"Richard," Matthew tried, but he silenced when he noticed his friend's expression. "As you wish."

The terrorist stepped through the curtain, and he made his way to the bathroom. Inside, he splashed cold water onto his face. Comfortable, he slipped out of the rest of his clothing and stepped under a hot stream of water now running in the shower.

His mission had been a disaster. Well, perhaps that was too hard. Disastrous, yes, but far from a disaster. After all, he did locate an underground fortress from which Arthur Pendley was doing ... what? He didn't know. Before he could learn what purpose the hidden base served, they had to escape, going after Indiri Farris, hoping against hope that they could locate her, shoot her, and leave her for dead. Another victim in DeMarco's growing list of exploits. He killed every woman he slept with. It was – the only frame of mind in which he could operate – efficient. However, the loneliness overcame him again as he thought of her face, but he dismissed it as easily as one might a case of indigestion. He refused to care for her. He refused to care for any woman. So far as it mattered, he was alone on the planet, and staying alone was all that mattered. Friends – Matthew and several others within the United States – were an occupational hazard. At times, they disappointed him, but he understood their necessity. They served a purpose – to further his individual agenda – and nothing more. It was a healthy outlook on the profession of terror, and DeMarco decided it was all that mattered.

Over the rush of water, he heard a short scuffle of footsteps. Someone had entered the washroom not long behind him. To his surprise, the shower curtain pulled back, and a blissfully naked Lisa stepped into the steaming water in front of him. She stood perfectly still, staring up at the man with her profoundly innocent eyes, and he watched as she studied his face. He returned her scrutiny – her pouting lips, her firm small chin, her perfectly plucked eyebrows, her high cheekbones. She was – in any estimation of the word – perfectly beautiful. She blinked her eyes slowly as she found him studying her, and, without hesitation, she leaned forward and pressed her firm, athletic, naked body against his.

DeMarco felt her warmth. He sensed the stead rise of her breathing on his chest. Her body felt wonderful against his, and he trusted that she felt the same.

"Don't worry, Richard," she whispered as she ran her lips across a tiny scar on his left shoulder.

"What is it, Lisa, that I should not worry about?"

"That woman," she said gently. "We will find her, and we will kill her."

"Do you think so?" he asked.

"I won't disappoint you again."

Reaching up, he grabbed a healthy handful of her dripping wet hair, forcing her head back so that he could stare into those darkly innocent eyes. She only smiled up at him. He found himself slowly aroused, melding his arm around her waist and pulling her mouth easily up to his.

"There is something we must do first," he told her.

Matthew sat alone at the table.

In the corner, a small black-and-white television set played, and he watched an area newscaster talking about the unconfirmed reports of a drive-by shooting a DC gentlemen's club. He smirked at the news, wishing in the dark recess of his evil mind for a chance to strangle Indiri – a woman who had inadvertently bested him while under the command of Richard DeMarco. He knew that the woman had to die. It was Richard's code, and it was the only code that he believed Richard respected. Women were an inconvenience ... or, in the very least, caring for them was. A professional, he knew, could never surrender to the whims of passion for anything other than momentary gratification. Love spoils the mind. Love softens the heart. Love drives insanity into an otherwise sane mind, and it corrupts the ideals of purpose. Respect, on the other hand, lasted forever, and Matthew trusted his life to respect ... to that of his counterparts in the exploits of terror ... to that of his friends made in the line of business ...

... but love was unnecessary. It was trash best left at the curb, and he would have none of it ...

... save for loving his only sister, Lisa.

The curtain parted, and DeMarco emerged. He wore a fresh pair of denim and while athletic socks. His chest and his hair were still damp from the welcome shower. His expression was dour. He stepped up to the small table and sat down opposite Matthew.

"We have made a grave miscalculation," the terrorist said.

"It's of no consequence."

DeMarco shook his head. "That woman can identify me, Matthew."

"That woman will be dead by tomorrow," the younger man countered. "I give you my word, my friend, as you would give me yours."

"I don't make a living on the words of others," the man stated. "I make my living on the deeds."

"Richard," Matthew interrupted calmly, "I understand why you're upset. However, I think you're voicing these concerns to the wrong person. It was Lisa who let Indiri escape. It was Lisa who drove the car when I tried to put a bullet in the head of that beautiful exploit of yours."

DeMarco's cheeks flexed as he slowly ground his teeth together.

"You are saying that you disapprove of me."

"I've said no such thing," Matthew offered. "I would not insult you."

"You disapprove of Indiri."

Patiently, Matthew threw his head back, rolling it around on his shoulders. His neck had began to kink, and he calmly cracked the vertebrae in order to relieve the stress.

"I have no right to disapprove of anything that you do, my friend."

"Then what is it, Matthew? What's troubling you?"

Grinning modestly, the younger man said, "All right, Richard. If you really want to know, then I will tell you what I think. That woman? Indiri Farris? She's a bit old for your tastes, don't you think?"

DeMarco tilted his head.

"You know precisely what I'm saying," the man continued. "I've known you for many years now, Richard, and I've seen your taste up front – in action, as they say. That woman must be ten years older than any beauty I've ever seen you with ... and, please remember, I have seen you with many. I don't understand the appeal, and now, as luck would have it, she is out there. She is far too ... adult ... for your tastes. You prefer women who are much younger. You prefer women who can be bended, shaped, and forced to explore whatever your will dictates. Older women? They tend to be more responsible. They tend to have a better concept of what is right in the world and what is wrong. Were she to know who you are? Were she to learn who you are? Why, she wouldn't hesitate but go to the police ... and that is a danger that Richard DeMarco – at least, the Richard DeMarco I know – would never take. You prefer a young woman. You prefer a woman with less experience so that you may – how can I put this politely – impress upon them your worldliness far more easily than one as well-traveled as Indiri Farris. You prefer a woman like ..."

"Like your sister?" DeMarco interrupted.

Suddenly, Matthew realized that Lisa was nowhere in sight.

Before he could react, he felt the knife piercing his throat. It sliced into his skin easily on the right side, and it tore across his jugular vein effortlessly, cutting the critical passageway easily. Matthew sensed the warm blood on his neck, and he immediately brought his hand up in a vain attempt to save his own life. Within seconds, he knew that it was far too late. He knew that he would be dead in a matter of mere moments, and he sensed an overwhelming vertigo that caused the room to saunter in his sight. The room went dark as he lapsed into tunnel vision, but he had enough strength to rise and spin around and realize that the last face he saw – the face of his killer – was that of his dear little sister, Lisa, the one person in his life that he had dared to love, and now love – as he had long feared – was every man's undoing, even his own.

He slipped to the floor, closing his eyes, falling in a dead lump.

DeMarco smiled up at the young woman, and she smiled back at her new lover.

"Get your things," he said. "We must leave this place at once."

END of Chapter 37


	38. Chapter 38

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 38

Five Days, Fifteen Hours

"There!"

Nina nearly fell to the floor as the safety catch gave way. After much protest, the hatch finally swung away, revealing the bulletproof viewport in the airlock's door. She felt Ebdon's arms under her shoulders, and he kept her from crashing to the ground. He helped her stand upright again, and, together, the two of them glanced through the opening into the room beyond.

Even the thick steel couldn't muffle all the gunfire that had erupted not long after David Jennings had rushed them into the small corridor. Bursts of deadly fire exchanges routinely sounded like muffled grinding through the door, and they looked out furiously hoping to learn what exactly was going on.

"Oh, my Lord, they're taking some hits!" Ebdon exclaimed.

The main entrance to the Mallathorn's chamber had been blown from its hinges, and the steel interior plating had eventually given way to a second blast. Then, armed soldiers hopped into the room, their guns blazing at the scientists and support personnel moved for cover. Many weapons must have been hidden within the chamber as Jennings appeared to be scrambling about, arming the entire staff, and the firefight had begun. Straining, Nina made out several of the fallen whitecoats, and she noticed one of the faces – one of the technicians she thought she had recognized when they first entered the installation – do his best to provide medical treatment to his colleagues.

"They're not going to last long against those soldiers," she announced, her voice full of dread.

"Nina, you find a way to get me out of here, and I swear I'll take a few of those boys down with me before I go," Ebdon challenged. "My skill may not be what it used to be, but there's no way I'm going down without a fight!"

Comforting, she placed a hand on his shoulder. "This isn't our fight, Ebdon!"

"What are you talking about?" he charged. "There are people dying out there, and we're safe in here! What other fight is there?"

She nodded at the door behind them, the one that led into the inner sanctum of the Mallathorn.

"Jennings believed that these men have come for the alien," she explained. "If that's the case, then our fight is in there, making absolutely certain that they don't take him or kill him ... I don't know which, but we won't settle for either! Now, I don't know what to do, but we need a plan, and we need it fast!"

Pounding his closed fists against the steel plate, Parker screamed, "Open this damn window!"

"It is no use, Frank," the alien tried. "We have been sealed in for the purposes of survival."

"I want to see what's going on out there!" Glaring back over his shoulder at the small creature, he yelled, "My friends are out there, and I have to do something!"

"I'm certain Jennings will get them to safety."

"Safety?" Parker challenged. "What the hell kind of safety is there? It looked like every door led to here, so where else is there for them to go?"

"Frank, please relax."

"I can't!"

Again, Parker rolled up his fists, smashing them as hard as he could against the plate.

"LET ME OUT OF HERE NOW!"

Pointing toward the door to the interior chamber where he knew the alien would be, Ebdon Finkle said, "We're going in there."

Turning away from the horror she witnessed through the small portal, Nina glanced at the other steel door. There was no sign of any window on it, and she could only imagine what the Mallathorn and Frank Parker were doing on the other side. They were probably trying to figure out, as she was, what they could do to help the others, and they were probably as frustrated with the fact that any possible solution evaded them as it did her.

"Ebdon, I can't go in there."

"Doctor, I hate to tell you this," he tried, "but there just isn't any other way to go!"

She left the door and firmly took the old man by the shoulder. "You don't understand, Ebdon! I can't go in there! Frank's in there, and he's out of his containment suit! If I'm exposed to the temporal contamination trapped in his body, then I'm as good as dead!" She glanced down at the pistol she held in her other hand. "I may as well be of some use out there, where I can help the others try to fend off these attackers."

Confused, the old man brought a hand up to his face and brushed it across his brow. He wiped away a small line of sweat that had formed there. "I guess I hadn't thought of that."

"You've been immunized," she reminded him. "You go. Help Frank protect the alien."

Defiantly, he barked back at her, "I won't leave you here to die!"

"If you don't go, then quite possibly we'll all die, Ebdon!"

"There has to be another way!" he insisted.

"But there isn't!" Again, she squeezed his shoulder, struggling to hold back her emotion. She knew that she was going to die. Everyone did. In her line of work, she had seen far more people – innocent people – pass into the great mystery of death than she cared to remember. Most of the deaths had been fitful, the merciless wrath of temporal contamination, but some of it had been peaceful. She hoped that she'd receive the latter. "There isn't any other way, Ebdon, and you're not doing any of us any good by staying here to protect me." He started to protest, but she interrupted him. "Frank's body is no threat to you, Ebdon, but I've seen what it can do to others ... and there's no way I'm going to put myself through that. I've worked too hard for far too long to give in to it, and there's no way I'll let myself think otherwise when it comes to saving my own life." She took her hand from his shoulder and placed it gently against his cheek. "Please. Go. Just go. I'll stay here. I'll do what I can to hold them back. I'll do what I can to give you and Frank and the Mallathorn some more time. Maybe reinforcements will arrive soon, and maybe those soldiers won't even get through this door. Either way, I want you to go ... now."

When it appeared he was still unwilling to go, she added, "I'll be all right."

Slowly, he swallowed. He couldn't leave her ... could he? It wasn't right ... but what about Frank? What about the alien? Shouldn't he try to do as she said and protect the two of them?

"Nina?"

"I mean it, Ebdon," she said. "I'll be all right."

He turned. There, it stood: the door that separated him from an entire lifetime of secrets. He took a few steps toward it, glancing sideways at Frank's possessions, and ...

"That's it," he said.

"What?"

He whirled around and faced her. "Nina, you're coming with me!"

"Ebdon, please ..."

"Listen to me, young lady," he spat. "I won't hear any more of this. You're coming with me, and you're coming with me right now!"

"Don't make me do this!" she screamed.

"Nina," he cut her off, "I have an idea!"

END of Chapter 38


	39. Chapter 39

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 39

Five Days, Fourteen Hours, Fifty-One Minutes

"Easy there, Isaac."

Turning away from the small bank of flat panel monitors projecting thermal imaging of the scene that took place many hours earlier in northern Alaska, Mentnor glanced up into the eyes of Nathan Ramsey. They were fixed determinedly but not on the scientist's work. Instead, Ramsey was flashed them around the room, taking in a quick view of every uniformed technician, tactical advisor, and military attaché assigned to the White House War Room. These people were consummate professionals. They were dedicated, in principle and oath, to serving the current Administration, but, over the last few minutes, Ramsey had been formulating a theory – the foundation of a truly calculated idea – and he was no longer at each and every person down here as a tailored suit patriot: instead, he entertained other notions – secret notions – that drove him to dark conclusions.

"What is it?"

"Your backups," Ramsey whispered. "Don't save anything to the White House mainframe."

"What?"

"Just ... please, Isaac. I need your help on this. Save all of your work on the BackStep mainframe you've tapped into. I think it's a more prudent plan of action."

Mentnor pursed his lips. "Why is that?"

"Humor me."

The scientist shook his head. "Nathan, I honestly don't understand what good that will serve ..."

"Just ... humor me, Isaac."

The older man stared up into the director's face. He found enough of an answer in that firm expression, and he agreed. "As you wish, Nathan."

"What do you have?"

Mentnor closed several file sharing windows and maximized a single satellite photograph with an overlaid section of gridwork. Pointing and clicking at the screen, the scientist explained, "You have to understand what we're looking at." He centered the pointed cursor on a gaping black and red whole offset from the photo's center. "Here, I believe this is where the temporal weapon struck the Alaskan surface." With his free hand, he tapped a few buttons, and the coloring changed dramatically. Parts of the picture's hole were suddenly transformed into a grayscale, an obvious measure of ... of ... Ramsey didn't know what. "What you're seeing here is the measurement of a heat signature from ground zero, the chief point of impact with the temporal beam." Using his cursor, Mentnor highlighted several areas where the gray color decreased in intensity. "Like most blasts, the absolute center suffered the greatest level of heat. This is where the temporal beam – for lack of a better phrase – struck the ground, but you can see from the trailing edges of gray spiraling out from the blast's epicenter that this explosion lanced outward with tremendous arms of heat, tremendous shocks of intense temperature. If I didn't know better, I'd say that I'm looking at an overview of the Milky Way galaxy with a single bright light at its center and the spiraling arms glowing just as significantly. That means ... well ... from what I can superficially determine from this photograph that the temporal beam uses – much like a particle beam – a highly focused blast of energy, directly at a surgically precise target. The resulting blast, however, throws arms – tentacles, if you will – of temporal radiation out from the center in almost perfect alignment from the host."

"The host?"

"The center of the blast," Mentnor continued. "Think of it as a work of precise mathematical calculation, Nathan. The blast is the brain of this great octopus, and it grows arms almost instantly in geometically exact proportion all around it ... much like the fact of a clock. These arms are perfectly equidistant from one another. Mathematically, this is a perfect a blast as would be possible. It doesn't seem to suffer the effects of nature. Wind would not alter its precision. Matter – of any kind – would not alter the trajectory of its arms. Those facts – while they may be cursory determinations – would make me believe that there is no defense against such a weapon. It can strike through anything, as temporal energy takes precedence over physical matter in any equation I can figure."

Ramsey stood, his eyes fixed to the picture. "And this is what was unleashed on Trace Hightower?"

Mentnor paused, staring up at the director.

"What is it, Isaac?"

The older man glanced around briefly. "You implied that we were not safe to discuss this out in the open."

The director leaned down. "Well, my friend, it doesn't look like we have much of a choice. Stoddard is busy handling to the affairs on this end that the President needs to have handled, and McGinty isn't about to leave his side." He craned his head a bit closer to the man. "Why don't you tell me ... but keep your voice low."

The man nodded. "Very well."

Turning back to the screen, he tapped a button, releasing the cursor from its lock. Taking the mouse in his hand, he moved it, and the arrow on the screen circled about, finally closing in on several misshapen masses – were those rocks? – near the top left-hand corner of the screen. Mentnor tapped the mouse, and, suddenly, the area became magnified.

"What am I looking at?" Ramsey asked.

"Rocks," Mentnor explained. "As you may know, the Alaskan frontier occasionally spouts a series of outcroppings due to volcanic activity from several thousand years ago. These foundations of nature are sparse across the frozen tundra, but there are there, nonetheless. This outcropping happens to be in a very close proximity to the terrorist's blast. Now, if you look closely, enhancing the satellite photo through the greater use of thermal filters ..."

Mentnor tapped a few buttons, and, suddenly, two orange forms appeared. They were distinct, and they were nestled between several of the rocky mounds ... however, after staring at the shapes for a few moments, Ramsey was certain that the once thermal globs began to take on greater distinction ... with an arm here and a leg there.

"People," he announced.

"Yes," Mentnor agreed.

"Someone survived the blast."

"Nathan, take it easy," Mentnor offered. "These photographs are several hours old, at this point, and, from what we know, we haven't been able to establish contact with anyone up there. Temporal energy, as you know, when released into uncontained environment has properties very similar to that of an electromagnetic pulse. So, if these two survivors were equipped with any kind of radio equipment whatsoever, this blast – this terrorist attack – would've rendered much of it useless." Glancing around, Mentnor cleared his throat before adding, "However, I am completely certain that this is the path that Mr. Hightower and his Secret Service entourage were heading, after comparing the last known tactical data from their contact with Zulu Base." The man sniffed, studying the image on the screen. "There's no way to know whether or not either of these figures is Trace Hightower. As a matter of fact, with the reality that these photographs are several hours old, there's no way for us to even know that whoever these two men are even survived the end result of that explosion."

Ramsey stood. "But they're alive ... in this picture?"

The scientist nodded. "The heat signatures are very pronounced, leading me to conclude that, yes, they were probably in good health when these photos were taken."

Quickly, the director nodded.

"That's good enough for me ... and it's more than enough for the both of us. Come on. We've should tell the others."

* * *

Ethan Stoddard glanced up from his brief as the door to the Conference Room swung open. Chloe Vandemark, startled, dropped her coffee on the table and swore. Quickly, she started dabbing at the growing puddle with some scratch paper. Colonel McGinty swung in his chair and barked, "Nathan, just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"You're going to need to hear this, colonel."

Ramsey dragged Mentnor in through the open door and closed it behind him.

"Mr. Ramsey," Stoddard announced, reaching out and shuffling his papers away from the spilled coffee, "we're in the middle of formulating the President's response to this whole affair."

"I know that, sir, and that's why you need to hear this."

"With all due respect," the chief of staff continued, "you know the President's policy on terrorism. It isn't as if it's his own. It's simply ... the nature of the beast. To be honest, it's a position that's been passed down from Administration to Administration. We don't negotiate with terrorists. Now, this man ... this organization ... these men ... they've attacked a member of the President's family, and we're not going to stand for that. We're going to formulate a military response ... if we only knew where to strike. In the meantime, I'd appreciate it if you and Dr. Mentnor could continue to gather ..."

"Sir," Ramsey interrupted, holding up his hands. "Like you, I'm not going to dance around any fancy issues. I'm going to be plain and simple. I won't take but a moment of your time."

Sitting back in his brown leather chair, Stoddard nodded with resignation. "All right, Nathan. All right. What is it you believe I should know?"

"Sir, there's a good chance ... an astounding chance ... that Trace Hightower is, quite possibly, still alive."

Stoddard, McGinty, and Vandemark all turned their undivided attention to Director Ramsey.

"There's no way I can give you an answer of absolute certainly, sir," he began, "and, for that, I am truly sorry. However, Isaac has completed a cursory review of several photos provided by my contact in what remains of the Soviet Defense Ministry, and we can say that – with conviction – that two people within Mr. Hightower's party did not, in fact, did in the temporal blast."

Quickly, Mentnor began rushing around the conference room table, and he passed out the recently printed photographs he had reviewed. As luck would have it, he found two more satellite images that not only confirmed two survivors; one of them very specifically showed that these two images – these two people – had risen to their feet and were moving off in a direction southward, decidedly away from the blast.

"What?" Chloe asked. "You've got to be kidding? How could that be? How could someone survive ... such an attack by a weapon we know so little about?"

"That isn't entirely accurate, Ms. Vandemark," Mentnor offered. "You have to keep in mind that those of us in the BackStep Program are, in fact, uniquely familiar with recording, evaluating, and mapping the use and misuse of temporal energy, the very fuel that powers our Sphere." He tapped at one picture he held in his hand. "As I've said, this energy signature was very familiar to me when I saw it for the first time. Of course, it was! I've been working for it with several years out in Nevada! Now, that doesn't mean I can tell you all of the pros and cons of releasing it outside of containment – you've already heard my theory on that – but I can tell you that, with no hesitation, it is temporal energy. The markings are identical to those that I've catalogued inside the Sphere. These photographs required some getting used to, but, once I was comfortable, I was able to decide which of these needed to be viewed through several tactical software interfaces I've operated out of the BackStep Program." Triumphant, he dropped the last few photographs to the table. "In short, I can understand why your terrorist would want to avoid any involvement by the BackStep Team. We've dealt with these sort of energies. We're the best schooled to detect their use – or misuse, as is the case here – and we're quite possibly uniquely equipped to tell you what to make of all of this science."

Glancing up from the photographs, Stoddard smiled. "Doctor, I believe you're a genius."

"No, sir," Mentnor declined to accept full responsibility. "I'm just an expert at ... well ... this."

"I don't understand," Chloe tried. She placed one photograph – the one showed the two heat signatures of people sheltered by some errant rock formations – and pointed at the image. "You're saying that there two blips ... these are people?"

"That's correct, ma'am," Ramsey interjected.

"But how do we know that either of the survivors is Trace Hightower?"

Nodding, the director stepped forward. He pulled out a heavy chair and sat down, gesturing for Mentnor to do the same.

"Well, I hope you don't think this inappropriate of me," he began with a bit of trepidation, "but I used the telephone to call in another favor."

Chloe's eyes widened. "Director Ramsey, please don't tell me that you leaked politically sensitive information to another third world country?"

Diplomatically, Ramsey held up a hand. "No, ma'am. I would never jeopardize the great United States of ours. But ... see ... I started to ask myself some questions that I hadn't taken the time to ask myself earlier. There's been so much information that – to be perfectly honest – I haven't taken time to absorb it all." He relaxed his arms on the tabletop. "Now, we know that your terrorist – and I'm calling him that because I truly believe that's what he is – he isn't your ordinary garden-variety terrorist, sirs ... and ma'am ... if you don't mind my saying."

"What do you mean?" Stoddard tried. "He's made an attack. He's listed his demands. I'm not following."

"Nathan?" Mentnor interrupted. "Please? Allow me." The scientist turned to the table. "Gentlemen and lady, I'm a scientist. Through and through. I'm not ashamed to say that I don't have a political interest any where in my blood. Ultimately, my apathy towards policy brought me into the BackStep Program, just as my apathy for policy forced me to re-evaluate personal needs, and these needs brought me to conclude that my time with Bradley Talmade, Mr. Ramsey, and the others was over. I left the program a few years ago ... not long after Frank Parker's death ... because I felt that the current technology held little more to offer me. Yes, there were other ... far more personal reasons that caused me to abandon the project ... but my central concern was that – as I'm no politician bent on funding a project whose science appears to be set in stone, I decided to go elsewhere. BackStep offered me nothing in the way of new challenges.

"Now, terrorists," he continued, "generally function from a similar mindset, as I'm sure the colonel or any member of Homeland Security can attest to. Terrorists want something new, something cutting edge, something a free society has no means with which to defend itself against. However, as terrorists generally cannot achieve the level of funding necessary to pursue these new technologies, they're left with taking what's currently available to them in the marketplace – nuclear materials, biochemical hazards – and they modify them in such a way that they believe they've come up with a new weapon. In reality, today's terrorist is using the same weapons that have been available to much of mankind for the last twenty, thirty, forty years. However, this attack ... this attack found a weapon outside of the box. Don't allow me to mislead you; his ends were the same as any other terrorist, but he found a super secret weapon that the world had yet design any countermeasure to thwart ... and that, my friends, means that you're not dealing with the ordinary terrorist mindset. What he wants, I would say, is far from what he's told you he wants. He could have that by simply using the weapon again and forcing you to acquiesce to his every wish. He wasn't. Nor will he. In fact, I would argue that he won't tell you what he truly desires because he already knows it's beyond your abilities to provide."

"Dr. Mentnor," Chloe interrupted, "that sounds like a very prolific analysis. Do you have any evidence to support your contention?"

"I believe I do," the man replied with some confidence. "Why did this man deny you access to your satellite defense grid? It was so you couldn't learn the truth behind what he was doing."

"What does that mean?" McGinty tried. "With all due respect, doctor, dealing with terrorism isn't an area I'm comfortable leaving to the venue of science. This is global extortion. He's listed his demands. Yes, he's crippled our ability to investigate what he's doing ..."

"... and that's because he knows that someone – it may be you, colonel; it may be me; it may be someone we've yet to conclude – has the ability to recognize what he's doing and to stop it," Mentnor concluded.

"Doctor," Chloe tried again, "what you're saying makes absolutely perfect sense, but what proof can you provide to support your opinion?"

"He's crippled your satellite network," Ramsey stated emphatically. "He doesn't want you to see this. He doesn't want you to know that he's struck you with a temporal weapon. We know that he's demanded that all personell and materials associated to BackStep be turned over to him, and why do you think that is? It's because this team – more than any other – would have the ability to detect what it is he's doing and, with a little luck, find a way to stop it." The director shifted in his chair. "Don't you get it? He didn't want you to see these satellite photos? He didn't want you to have the ability to evaluate what you were dealing with? On that ground, Isaac's theory makes perfect sense."

Placing a hand on the table near her, Mentnor smiled. "I understand your concerns, Ms. Vandemark. Please. I'm not questioning your ability to do your job, and I'm certainly not questioning your loyalty to our President. I think I know what you want, and I do have another suggestion that might present another fact that will make you more inclined to believe what I'm saying."

"What is it, doctor?"

Mentnor smiled weakly. "I don't want to alarm anyone, but I would be remiss in my duties here if I didn't point out that two men – their identities are unknown – did survive that temporal blast in Alaska. We do not know if they're still alive, but I would be willing to guess that, if they are, they're on foot headin back toward Alaska's mythical Zulu Base."

"Yes," Stoddard agreed, "so?"

With a fixed expression, the scientist added, "If we know that, then your terrorist knows that. And, if your terrorist knows that two men survived, then he might be making the same conclusion that we've made: one of those survivors is, indeed, Trace Hightower. If it is, then your terrorist cannot allow Mr. Hightower to get out of that blast zone alive, much less the state. If he is alive, Mr. Hightower would be heading for Zulu Base, a conclusion your terrorist will also reach."

"Get on the horn," Ramsey announced. "Check every tactical military air response base between here and Alaska. Any base with the ability to launch a long-flight aircraft into Alaska could very well be a team under orders by your terrorist to finish the job – the kill Trace Hightower – before the rest of us find out that he's still alive."

The blood drained from Stoddard's face.

"Oh my God," he muttered.

"That's right," Ramsey said. "If the President's son-in-law is still alive, then we have to get someone airborne to rescue him before your terrorist completes his mission."

END of Chapter 39


	40. Chapter 40

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter

Five Days, Fourteen Hours, Forty-Four Minutes

... and then Parker heard the seal on the airlock gasp.

"No!" he screamed.

From what he knew, Larnord told him that – in one manner of speaking – Frank Parker's arrival in this timeline – in this continuum – was sure to spell the death of the world, of existence, of everyone he knew and held dear. There was no way – if he took the alien timelord at its word – of stopping it. Since his arrival, he had caused several deaths from temporal contamination. An odd turn of events – not necessarily of his causing – had led to the apparent death of the President's son-in-law, Trace Hightower. Ebdon Finkle, an innocent bystander, had almost died. Then, moments ago, gunfire had broken out in the Pentagon subchamber that housed the support staff caring for Larnord, and – there was no doubt in Parker's mind – scientists and guards and administrative crew were dying out there.

Now, someone was opening the seal to the Mallathorn's chamber, and, if the current train of events set precedence, he would inadvertently infect everyone out there – the good, the bad, the innocent – with temporal radiation. There wasn't a thing he could do about it.

"The hell there isn't!" he shouted, leaping toward the massive steel door that cracked away from the frame and crept slowly into the room. He lunged, landing his hands on the cold metal, and he pushed. "No! Stay out of here! I won't be responsible for another death! Stay out! Stay out! STAY OUT!"

Suddenly, the force opposing him grew stronger, and Parker slipped down to his knees in disgust, pounding on the hard surface as he lost his footing, lost the struggle to save countless others, and started to lose his very mind.

Then, a helmeted face popped around the edge, and Parker gazed up into the eyes of Nina Welles.

She wore his protective containment suit.

Behind her, Ebdon Finkle – nine millimeter pistols in each hand – entered into the room.

"What the hell has gotten into you?" he asked.

Exhausted, Parker smiled. He slipped onto the floor and sat with his back to the door, resting all of his weight against it. "Thank God."

"Thank God is right, thank you very much," Finkle snapped.

"I thought you were the others."

"Who?" the old man tried. "The ones who've stormed this place and are out there shooting the hell out of everything?"

"Yes!" Parker replied. He brought his hand up and brushed it hard across his face. "I thought I was going to infect everyone!"

Finkle grimaced. "Get some sense, will ya, Frank?" He gestured at the doctor. "Do you think I'd be stupid enough to bring her in here without some sort of protection?" Leaning down, he barked, "Didn't I tell you I'd take care of things?"

"All right, all right!" the chrononaut shot back. "My mistake!"

"You're damn right, it was your mistake!" Cradling one of his pistols under his arm, he reached out with a hand and helped the younger man to his feet. "Did you think we were going to sit out there and wait to be shot up like the rest of them sorry Pentagon paper-pushers?"

"No, Ebdon, you did the right thing."

Holding out her hands, Nina stepped forward. "We really didn't have any other choice, Frank. They placed us in the connecting chamber to give us what protection they could, but you can tell by the gunfire that those men are breaking through what resistance the scientists here have been able to muster. Ebdon came up with the idea to shelter me from contamination by wearing your suit, and it was the only chance we had left." She shrugged. "Otherwise, we were sitting ducks to the military."

"The military?" Parker glanced around her, into the airlock, and he saw it unoccupied. "You've got to be kidding me? Why would the United States military attack their own Pentagon?"

"I don't know," she said. "It makes absolutely no sense to me, either." Then, shifting uncomfortably within the suit, she added, "Jesus, I never realized how much this thing weighed!"

"Welcome to my world, doc," Parker quipped.

Quickly, he ushered the two of them clear of the airlock, and, with Ebdon's help, he heaved on the plating, pushing the door closed. It clicked into place, and Parker took one of the pistols from the older man. After warning them to stand back, he fired three shots at the series of buttons and knobs that controlled the mechanism. Sparks erupted from around the seal of the door, and Parker was certain that had done the trick.

"What are you doing?" Nina asked.

"I'm sealing us in here," he explained. "If those military men do break through, then the next place they're coming is in here."

"But why?"

"That is a very good question, young lady," Larnord announced. The Mallathorn was suddenly hovering in the air, not far from where they stood, its arms crossed, its tentacles dangling loosely like airborne leaves around its head.

In response, Nina screamed, and Finkle pulled up his remaining pistol. Quickly, Parker reached over and put his hand on the gun.

"No, no," he cautioned. "You don't want to shoot Larnord. If you think we have trouble now, can you imagine what kind of madness we'd be in if the Earth were suddenly surrounding by this guy's fleet of flying saucers?"

"The Mallathorn ships are not saucer-shaped, Frank."

"Well, pardon the insult."

"They are far more similar to your Earthling's teardrops."

"Then cry me a river, Larry."

In a decidedly human expression, Larnord narrowed the slits of his eyes at the chrononaut.

"Sorry," the man offered. "Larry, these are my friends."

"Yes."

Parker took his hand from Ebdon's gun. "This wiley old coot is Ebdon Finkle."

"A bodyguard?" the alien tried.

"No," Finkle answered matter-of-factly. "I run a restaurant."

"Really?"

"That's right. A damn good one, too, if I don't say so myself."

"I have no doubt, Mr. Finkle."

Extending his hand over, Parker took Nina by the shoulder and pulled her forward. At the sight of the alien, she had stepped back, retreating slightly behind the two men, but Parker wouldn't let her hide. It would be courteous. "This is Dr. Nina Welles. She's on loan to the BackStep Program from the Centers for Disease Control."

Majestically, Larnord gracefully lowered itself to the floor. "I've heard about your work, Dr. Welles."

Reflexively, the woman blurted a slight scream.

Parker slapped her lightly on the cheek. "Nina!"

Breaking from her trance, she shook her head. "What?" she tried, her expression one of sheer cluelessness. Then, she relaxed. "Oh, I'm sorry. I apologize Mister ... uh ... Mister Larnord. I've heard about you. I've based much of my research at synthesizing Chroniticin on information that you've passed on to your Pentagon stewards. It's just that ..." She shuffled a bit where she stood. "It's just that I sort of freaked when I heard the first alien I've ever met say my name." She cleared her throat.

"You need offer no apology, doctor," the Mallathorn replied. "Given our present circumstances, I find myself slightly apprehensive about our fate."

"You?" Parker interrupted. "Larry, you know the future. You know what the hell is going on here. There's no reason that you – of all ... er ... people – that you should be apprehensive. Why don't you cut the crap and let us in on what's happening out there?"

"Frank, please."

"Don't try that 'we're old friends' routine on me, Larry." Parker glanced in the direction of the shielded viewport, listening to the distance bursts of repeating gunfire. "This facility has been surrounded, from what my friends tell me. Your staff out there are dying, all to protect you. Now, if you've altered the timeline as you've said – if you've taken these various events and thrown them on the floor like a deck of cards – then I'm willing to make an educated guess that you can still see the faces on those cards. You can still see what's happening when and where and why. If I'm right, then you know what's going on out there, and we have every right to know."

"Why?" the Mallathorn asked.

"Why?" Parker repeated. "Why what?"

"Why do you have every right to know?"

At wit's end, Parker yanked the pistol up and aimed at the alien.

"Right now, we're the only thing between you and them."

"How do you know, Frank, that these men are not here to kill you?"

"Don't play Yoda with me!"

"Who?"

"Look," Parker tried, biting back a vicious retort, "this is the Pentagon, Larry. Now, where you're from, your people may not have a Pentagon, so I'll fill you in. This place? It's the grand poobah of military intelligence. In fact, it is the military. You don't storm the Pentagon unless you have a personal death wish. These men? If they have the ability to do this, then killing me would be easier than taking a baby away from its candy. They could've killed me any number of ways. An assassin could've infiltrated the Temporal Response Team that recovered me. A squadron could've stormed NeverNeverLand. Some rogue element could've shot down the airplane we flew from Nevada to Washington, D.C. All of those plans would've been far easier than breaking into the Pentagon, Larry, so don't even try to tell me that they aren't after you, and, if you try to do that again, I'm gonna start blasting my own holes in any number of these stockpiles of your Book of the Month collection ... so start talking!"

The Mallathorn grinned at the man. "You're correct, Frank. These men are here for me."

"Why?"

"They're following their orders."

"To do what?"

"To kill me."

A breath of cold air washed over the chrononaut. He had imagined that any number of groups within and beyond the United States military could have a multitude of reasons for wresting control of time out from under the hands of the government, but he hadn't imagined that anyone would want to kill the alien. Sure, every government of the world had an expressed interest in killing an alien visitor if for no other reason than to preserve the status quo, but Larnord had been here for awhile. He had given the United States a replacement Sphere for the one that had been destroyed in their version of 9/11. He had obviously warmed up to the elite and the powerful within the country's borders ... why would they want him dead?

"You're not telling me everything that you know, Larry."

"In time."

"We don't have time."

"We do ... so long as we keep these events from slipping out of our control, Frank," the alien countered. "Of all people, you should know that better than most."

With a start, Parker suddenly shook, the floor beneath him trembled. He heard the muffled explosion in his ears – the blast on the other side of the airlock – and he knew that the men had broken past what resistance the Mallathorn's keepers had provided, and they were advancing into the antechamber.

"All right," Parker agreed. "You win ... for now. But this conversation isn't over."

"Agreed."

Stepping forward, Finkle spat, "Now, if you two lovebirds don't mind, could we start discussing the plan for our getaway?"

"I'm agreeing with Ebdon," Nina offered. "There's no way out ... at least, there isn't any back the way we came in."

Curtly, Parker nodded. "Larry?"

"Yes?"

"Larry," the chrononaut continued, "like I said: this is the Pentagon. You don't expect me to believe that the United States government put you down here – way down here in this sub- sub- sub-basement – and they didn't leave you a way out in the event of emergencies?"

Sniffing, its tentacles swishing this way and that, the Mallathorn said, in resignation, "Follow me."

END of Chapter 40


	41. Chapter 41

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 41

Five Days, Fourteen Hours, Thirty Minutes

It didn't take long with the paperwork, and, with Lisa in tow, Richard DeMarco walked through the doors out into the massive parking lot for Truly Capitol Car Rentals. Together, they walked in silence down the long aislie, passing row after row of parking sedans, until they reached Lane K. They turned, marched up past the colorful models, and finally came to a halt in front of Space K39. DeMarco smiled, briefly studying the silver Jaguar XK8.

"Mind if I tag along?" Lisa asked.

Quickly, they slipped into the auto. DeMarco turned the key in the ignition, listened to the engine roar alive, and pulled out of the rental lot. He found the first exit for the freeway and headed for it.

"Where are we going?"

Reaching under his jacket, DeMarco found his cell phone. He pulled it out, flipped up the receiver, and hit the speed dial. Scrolling down the entries, he found what he was looking for and pressed the button.

"Richard?"

"Quiet, my sweet," he whispered.

The phone rang three times, and then he heard the click.

"Yes?" Arthur Pendley asked.

"There's been a development," DeMarco told him.

"What kind of development?"

"The kind you despise."

The driver jerked the wheel hard to the right, edging past a minivan for the exit ramp. Accelerating, he pulled the Jag onto the freeway, sliding easily into traffic.

"Whom did you kill this time?"

"The mission isn't complete," DeMarco confessed.

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Stop calling it a mission," Pendley cursed. "Once you've mastered control of your sadistic impulses, then you've earned the right to speak far more openly about your wishes and desires, Richard. Until then ... you're little more than an overgrown teenager."

Smirking, DeMarco spat, "I don't need you – of all people – lecturing me about impulse control, Arthur."

"What do you need?"

"I need a place to hide."

There was a long pause. Glancing in the rearview mirror, DeMarco watched as the cars disappeared into the distance. He noticed – per the speedometer – that he was passing 90 miles an hour, and he eased off the accelerator. There was no reason to alarm the local police – buffoons that they were – any more than he already had in killing one of their own.

"I have a place," Pendley finally replied.

"Really?"

"Yes. It's very secure ... but you're going to have to give me your word that you won't discuss it with anyone else."

DeMarco tilted his head back. "I'm not alone, Arthur."

"My hospitality ends with you, Richard. I won't harbor another fugitive."

"Why not?"

"You have no idea of the risks I'd be taking."

DeMarco smiled. He knew of the risk. After all, he had been there – as close to there as he could possibly get – and he could only imagine what secrets the underground facility deep beneath the Heston Tower concealed from the rest of the world. He would find out – in good time – but, apparently, not on terms he was willing to accept.

"Fine."

"I assume you're with another woman," Pendley taunted.

"Yes."

"Get rid of her."

"I don't wish to."

"I wasn't offering you advice, Richard," the man counseled. "If you want my help, I'm willing to give it to you ... on my terms alone."

He glanced out of the corner of his eye over at Lisa. She sat comfortably in the passenger seat, her arm cradled on the door rest, and she stared straight ahead, watching the cars ahead of them. She was smiling. He imagined that she was happy – happier than she had ever been – and he wasn't about to disappoint her. She had killed for him. She had killed her brother – the very man, the very kin that had opened this unique door of opportunity to her – and DeMarco wouldn't forsake her ... not yet.

"Fine."

"Where are you now?"

"Not yet," DeMarco confessed. "I have some business to take care of."

"Richard, please."

"Arthur, I will contact you once it's over."

"I can't promise you that I'll be able to help you at a later date and time."

"You will."

"How can you be so certain?"

"You always have," DeMarco chided the older man. "And you always will. It's like ... it's almost like you're a father taking care of your only son. You have that kind of devotion for me, Arthur, and I respect you for it. I admire you. It makes me wish that I had a son of my own ... but we both know that that is highly unlikely."

"God save us all."

DeMarco laughed. "I will contact you."

"When?"

"Soon," the terrorist assured him. "Very soon."

END of Chapter 41


	42. Chapter 42

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 42

Five Days, Fourteen Hours, Nineteen Minutes

Indiri Farris didn't know how long she could sit completely still.

Bradley Talmadge had brought her along to the police headquarters – he told her that her participation in the investigation surrounding Richard DeMarco was central to his present needs – but, after depositing her in a waiting room – one with a single armed detective to serve as her guard – he disappeared. Completely. She sat, in the meantime, flipping through an old magazine the detective provided, and she occasionally glanced up at the ticking clock, wondering when she would be put to use in this 'manhunt' Talmadge had warned her about. Turning back to the magazine, she glanced down at an advertisement for a new line of eyewear – Wishmakers – and she held the slick glossy up for the nearby detective to see. Pointing at the glamorous blonde beauty wearing the burgundy eyeliner, she told the man, "I know this model."

"Really?" he asked, sitting up in his chair.

She smiled curtly. "Yes."

The man grinned back at her. "I heard that you were in the modeling business."

"Talent management, actually," she corrected.

"You hire the models?"

"I represent them."

Grimacing, the man brought up a foam cup of coffee to his lips and sipped noisily. "Isn't that the same thing?"

"Not really."

The door opened, and Craig Donovan entered.

Politely, she glanced up from the magazine at the man. She noticed a spring in his step – the man seemed alive with a kind of reserved energy – and she immediately felt at ease. There was a confidence in his expression, an authoritative posture to his walk. He had a strong jaw and very distinct, dark eyes. She looked up at him and sensed a mild attraction, guessing that he was, possibly, much closer to her age than Richard DeMarco had been. Donovan carried a bottle of water, and he set it on the table in front of her.

"Here," he said. "It's the best I can find in the damn vending machines around here. I imagine that a woman like you would find this much more to your tastes than twice-brewed coffee." Donovan turned back to the detective. "Take a break, Ketterling. I'd like to speak with Miss Farris, if you don't mind."

Rising, the police officer asked, "What? No water for me?"

"Help yourself," Donovan replied, smiling. "Just make sure you have exact change. The damn machine ate two dollars before it gave me a single bottle. You'd think there would be some law against the police extorting money from a government agent, but I guess the rules don't apply to the boys in blue."

"Watch your back, Donovan."

"Right back at ya."

Closing the door behind him, the detective disappeared.

"How are you feeling?" the man asked.

Indiri reached across the table, taking the bottle of water and twisting the cap off. "I thought I'd been abandoned."

"Not abandoned," Donovan corrected. "Just kept waiting."

"Is that police procedure?"

"I wouldn't know," he told her. "I'm not with the police."

"Do you work for Bradley Talmadge?"

Pursing his lips, Donovan showed a pained expression. "Let's just say ... I used to." Leaning forward, he extended his hand to her. "My name is Craig Donovan. I'm with the NSA."

"The NSA?"

"Yes, Miss .... Farris, is it?"

"That's right," she told him. "But, please, call me Indiri."

"Thank you, Indiri."

"Where's Bradley?" she asked.

Easily, he pulled back a chair and sat down opposite her. "Bradley is here. He's reviewing some police surveillance footage from traffic cameras. Right now, he's trying to get a lead on where Richard DeMarco was heading after he left the hospital."

She wasn't certain as to why, but suddenly Indiri was overwhelming with a feeling of guilt. She guessed it had to do with her ... involvement with DeMarco. She wondered just how much Donovan had been told, and she wondered if the fact that she had slept with the man would keep him from respecting her.

"I apologize for the fact that you've been kept waiting, Indiri," Donovan changed the subject. "I'm afraid that's my fault. I was at the hospital."

"Were you there looking for Richard DeMarco?"

She thought she notice pain in his expression, albeit briefly, before he said, "Actually, no. I was there ... I was receiving care."

"You were hurt?"

"Yes, I was."

"By DeMarco?"

Yes. She was certain that she saw pain. Donovan was a professional. He tried to hide it, but, as good as she was with the human face, she saw it lurking there in his eyes. There was a glimmer of pain, of frustration, of ... guilt? He was doing his best to stay focused, but the wound was too recent to be covered up with trivial conversation. She had tapped into it, and, now, she had to know.

"What did he do?" she asked softly.

Donovan smiled weakly, professionally. "Earlier today, I was involved in an officer-related death."

She brought a hand up to her mouth. "Oh," she tried, "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean ..."

"Indiri," he quickly interrupted. "It's okay."

"But, Mr. Donovan, please! I didn't mean to ..."

"Really," he said. "It's all right. You didn't know. You had no possible way to know. It's all right. And ... please ... call me Craig."

"I'm sorry, Craig."

Briefly, he nodded.

"Earlier today, I was following up a lead that I had received on the whereabouts of Richard DeMarco," Donovan explained. "Generally, the NSA is only superficially involved in matters of threats to national security on domestic soil. Those investigations are traditionally left to the Federal Bureau of Investigation and to local law enforcement. However, I followed a hunch – with an officer of the Washington DC police – and we were ... well, we were caught in an explosion that I believe Richard DeMarco planned to cover any attempt to discover his true purpose for being in the United States."

She lowered her eyes, staring at the bottle of water. "Was ... is the officer all right?"

Donovan sighed. "Detective Guerrero died in the line of duty."

Now, she closed her eyes, damning herself for being so nosey. "Craig, I'm really sorry."

He relaxed a bit in his chair. Changing the subject, he tried, "Indiri, what's your relationship to Mr. DeMarco?"

Calmly, she shook her head. Opening her eyes, she faced him. "I don't have any relationship with him. As a matter of fact, I just met him ... recently. I was flying home from Paris, and he sat in the seat next to me on the plane. I swear to you. Before then, I had never seen or heard of the man!"

"It's all right," he said, reaching out with a hand. Comfortingly, he placed it on hers. Reacting, she let go of the bottle and took his fingers, gripping them tightly.

"Please, believe me."

"I do, Indiri."

"I met him on the plane," she continued. "He seemed so polite ... so sweet, almost. I would never have imagined that he was a terrorist!"

"Did he speak with you?"

She shrugged. "We talked about travel, mostly. He asked me about my business, what I did, and I told him. Then, mostly, we just talked about the modeling business." Throwing her head back, she let go of Donovan's hand and tried to mentally sort through everything the two strangers-on-a-plane had said to one another. "I think ... I think he said something about knowing someone in the modeling business ... I could be wrong ... but, in any event, one thing led to another, and I told him everything about what I do. Traveling the world. Managing the models. Contracting the work."

"What did he tell you about himself?"

Slowly, as the mental fog cleared, she realized that the conversation had largely centered on her. How did she let that happen? She met hundreds of people, wherever she went, and she prided herself on making others feel important. That meant that she spent a tremendous amount of effort of probing countless strangers about what they did. Never – at least, not in her recent past – did she ever spend so much time discussing herself. How could she have let her guard down with DeMarco? Was it his winning smile? Was it his rugged good looks? Did she see a prospective client for a future photo shoot ... or was it simply ... growing another year older alone?

"Indiri?"

Embarrassed, she realized she hadn't said anything to Donovan for a few moments.

"I'm sorry," she offered. "It's just ... I was trying to remember what he said."

"That's all right," he told her easily. "Take your time. I need you to think about your conversation." His voice was soothing. "Sometimes, it's the little things that are said which can mean a great deal. What did he tell you about himself?"

Exhausted, she shook her head. "Nothing," was her eventual reply.

"Did he tell you why he was coming to America?"

Again, she shook. "I don't remember. I mean ... he could have said something, but it's just ... I don't know why I can't remember anything that might help you."

"Did he tell you he was coming here for business, or was this a personal trip he was making?"

Suddenly, she remembered, "Paris! He told me he was from Paris!" Then, she relaxed a bit. "Well, no. That isn't exactly right. He told me that he lived in a small villa outside of Paris. He said ... he said it was a small place. He joked that it was so small that it probably didn't warrant being on a map."

"Someplace outside of Paris?"

"Yes," she agreed. "He said something ... he said something about liking the small and quiet ... that, at his age, he had grown far more comfortable with the small and the quiet than the large and the ..." She wrinkled her forehead. "You don't think ... you don't think he was talking about me, do you?"

Donovan tilted his head. "How do you mean?"

"Well," she tried, sorting through was she recalled of the airplane conversation, "I hadn't really said anything to him for a good part of the flight. You know? I travel an awful lot, Craig, and I couldn't begin to tell you the number of people I've sat next to aboard an airplane in my life. You reach a point ... well, you reach a point where polite chit-chat isn't really that important. I didn't say anything to him, and then – all of a sudden – he's flirting with me. Me. A woman easily ten years older than he is. A woman who – were I a few years younger – would probably be happy to have a man like Richard DeMarco show an interest in me ..."

The man didn't say anything.

"That's it, isn't it?" she tried. "He played me. He realized that – based on my personality – that I'd be someone he could manipulate."

"Indiri," Donovan said, his eyes fixed on hers, "you have to understand something about people like Richard DeMarco: they prey on the goodness and good nature in other people."

"But, Craig, I'm usually so good at reading people! How could I ..."

"Don't do this to yourself," he told her firmly. "You weren't weak. You were being yourself. Scum like Richard DeMarco want you to let your guard down, to be completely at ease. It makes taking their first step possible. If you had put up your guard, then he wouldn't have taken any notice in you whatsoever. He wouldn't have contacted you for dinner. He wouldn't have spent any time with you ... and we wouldn't have this possible lead that might prove his undoing." Raising his hand, he wagged a finger at her. "Don't allow yourself to believe that being who you are was in any way, shape, or form a sign of weakness. Life isn't that simple."

"But he played me!" she insisted. "He wormed his way into my life, he wormed his way into my ... my ... my bed ... and now I'm running for my life!"

"What happened after you stepped off the plane?"

She closed her eyes and shook her head in disgust. "He asked me ... he said something about asking me for a drink but he'd be afraid I'd reject him ... oh, why the hell didn't I see what he was doing?"

"What did you say, Indiri?"

"I gave him my business card."

"Your card?"

"Yes."

Disappointed in her own human frailty, she slumped in her chair.

Then, reality splashed her in the face.

"Oh, my God," she muttered.

She opened her eyes and stared at him. He was watching her as intently as she was him.

"I gave him my business card," she repeated. "He knows exactly where to find me." She drew in a quick breath before repeated, "Oh, my God, Craig, the bastard knows exactly where to find me!"

Reassuring, Donovan reached across the table and grabbed her hand. She tried to fumble loose, to duck away from him, but he quickly brought both of his hands around hers, smothering them under his warm skin. She couldn't pull away – she couldn't defy his strength – and she found herself trying with all her might to suppress the desire to throw herself clear of the table, to burst from the room, to run screaming down the halls that a madman – this terrible madman – knew exactly where to find her, knew exactly where she worked ... and she was afraid ... very afraid ... but something about the way Craig Donovan grasped her hands in his gave her pause.

"Indiri, I'm not going to lie to you," he whispered, "because that wouldn't be right. Yes. Richard DeMarco knows where you are. Yes. He knows more about you than you know about him. Yes. He tried to assassinate you earlier this evening but instead killed one of your models, no doubt one of your friends. Yes. He knows where you work ... and so do I." He leaned closer toward her from across the table. "Yes. Earlier today, Richard DeMarco killed a very good friend of mine ... and that's why Bradley Talmadge has asked me to come back aboard the project he commands so that I can protect you."

She focused on his eyes, and she knew that he was telling her only the truth.

"Indiri, I give you my word as another human being that, together, you and I will make absolutely certain that not a single other innocent person fails prey to this madman again so long as we work together."

She liked what she saw in his eyes. She appreciated his candor, despite the fact that she was scared to death, and she wanted to melt into him right now.

"If you give me your word that we'll work together," he bargained, "then I give you my word that we'll stop Richard DeMarco." He gripped her hands more tightly. "Can you do that? Can you give me your word?"

Slowly, she nodded.

"Tell me how I can help?"

END of Chapter 42


	43. Chapter 43

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 43

Five Days, Fourteen Hours, Five Minutes

"Sir, the Pentagon has come under attack!"

Ethan Stoddard glanced up from the mess of papers spread out on the conference room table in front of him. To his left, Travis McGinty dropped his cup of coffee. To his right, Nathan Ramsey reacted with cat-like reflexes, throwing the napkin from his lap toward the dark caffeinated liquid threatening to stain all of the written intelligence they had been reviewing.

"What did you say?" the chief of staff tried, rising from his chair.

"Sir, from what I understand, the Mallathorn Installation is completely offline," Leonard 'Match' Thomkins explained.

"What does that mean ... exactly?"

"A commando squad of military men broke the external perimeter over thirty minutes ago. The installation support staff is heavily armed and more-than-adequately trained. They managed to hold their ground for as long as they could. However, Pentagon Security notes that the entire surveillance system to the subterranean chamber just went dark."

Stoddard was furious. Angrily, he shoved his chair out from behind him and took several angry steps to his right. "These men broke the perimeter thirty minutes ago ... and we're hearing about it now?!"

Slowly, Thomkins glanced around at the expectant faces. After a pause, he concluded, "Sir, with all due respect, I'm only the messenger."

"How the hell does this happen in Washington of all places?"

"Take it easy, sir," McGinty tried, rising and brushing the coffee from his slacks. "It very well may be the fault of the White House."

"What are you talking about?"

"Procedure," the man continued. "After all, we did order all internal communication systems to go dark after the attack on Trace Hightower. Like it or not, Ethan, it's the protocol. You know that, as well as I do. We don't want to let anything slip unnecessarily to the media, nor do we want certain pieces of information to land in the hands of an unsupportive senator, aide, or House Representative. You know what's happened in the past. Some fool could have issued a foolish 'unsubstantiated' statement to the press about an internal government weakness. Unfortunately, as history as shown, we're not always equipped to deal with unanticipated contingencies."

"Unanticipated contingencies?" the chief squawked. "Travis, what the hell country do you serve that you support this kind of intelligence failure?"

Quickly, Ramsey stood, ignoring the spilled coffee. "Sir, I think all the colonel was trying to say was that now is hardly time to brainstorm better strategies to avoid these kind of failures in the future."

To his surprise, the White House Chief of Staff whirled on him with a glare that could've melted steel.

"Right now, sir," Ramsey pressed gently, "I think we'd better get someone over to the Pentagon to get the straight dope on what's happened to the Mallathorn."

Still, the chief glared at Ramsey.

"Sir, I'm not trying to quarterback your team here," Ramsey offered. "I'm only trying to work the problem. That's what my years of service to this country has taught me to do. That's what BackStep has taught me to do. That's what Bradley Talmadge has taught me to do." With some unease, he added, "And ... in fact, failing to work the problem subject of much heated debate between Director Talmadge and I at my last performance review ... sir ... so I happen to know more about it than I'd honestly care to admit."

Stoddard placed his hands firmly on his hips.

"I'll go," Ramsey offered, hoping that he'd at least be granted a reprieve from the man's steely-eyed glare.

"No," the chief interrupted quickly. "No. It's all right. I understand your point, and it's well taken. Besides, I'll need you for something else, Nathan." Turning, he said, "Travis, I want you to get yourself to the Pentagon as fast as humanly possible, and I want you there thirty minutes ago ... if you catch my drift."

Slowly, McGinty's lip curled into a smile. "Yes, sir."

Stoddard gestured toward the secret service agent in the doorway. "And, for God's sake, take Match there with you. He's one of the best we have, and that has to count for something."

"Yes, sir."

"Colonel?" Ramsey offered as the uniformed man turned to leave in a rush. "Keep in mind that Frank Parker is there. If you'll pardon me for saying so, this new crisis sounds exactly like something that would happen any time that man is around."

McGinty stopped. "Are you saying that Parker has something to do with this attack on the Mallathorn?"

As shameful as it felt, Ramsey denied the reality that the thought of Parker's guilt had, in fact, crossed his mind. Granted, he hadn't served with Parker – well, he'd never served with this Parker, damn the temporal mechanics – for quite some time, but unpredictability and Frank Parker went hand-in-hand. Still, he didn't want the colonel or the White House Chief of Staff to misunderstand.

"No, sir," he finally said, clearly his throat. "Frank Parker is many things. He's a maverick. He's a loose cannon. He's stubborn as hell. He's insubordinate. He's ... well ... as I said, he's many things unfortunately to many people. I think if you review my logs of BackStep Operations you'll find that the record's clear: I've never been what you would call 'fond' of Frank ... but he's no traitor to his country." Something about giving his long-time, oft-maligned adversary a much-deserved compliment refreshed Nathan Ramsey. "As a matter of fact, I'd be willing to bet my salary that Frank's probably in the thick of it right now ... and he's probably fighting for our side." Reluctantly, he tucked his hands into his pockets. "You have to forgive this old dog, colonel. What I meant to say was ... watch your back. Unfortunatley, bad things happen where Frank Parker goes, and I'd hate to see anything bad happen to you ... or to him."

With a knowing smile, McGinty nodded. "Thanks for the advice, Nathan."

"Yes, sir."

Ramsey watched as the colonel disappeared through the door. He desperately wanted to go along. He desperately wanted to find himself part of the action again. The BackStep Program – since Frank Parker's untimely demise – had turned into a government-sponsored utility. Channing Michelson was a good sport: he accepted any mission, he went back in time, and he worked hand-in-hand with the BackStep personnel to insure the success of any mission. Michelson was almost clinical in his efficiency, and Nathan Ramsey had secretly found himself almost wishing for the adventurous sense of the unpredictability that accompanied Frank Parker. Time travel had become a time clock, punched in and punched out with almost dreadful state-ordered efficiency. Where had the fun gone? Where had the spirit gone? Sure, the program was a whopping success, but ... was it fun any more?

Could he admit it to himself?

Could it possibly be that Ramsey actually missed Parker?

He shook his head.

"Giving Frank Parker a few kind words was, almost, for you," Stoddard observed, "wasn't it, Nathan?"

Ramsey bit his lip.

"You have no idea, sir."

END of Chapter 43


	44. Chapter 44

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 44

Five Days, Thirteen Hours, Fifty-Nine Minutes

It took much longer than Parker liked, but, in the end, he realized they didn't have any other choice. Those soldiers – Nina had told him everything she had seen outside the antechamber – were advancing, and Larnord's secret passage was their only hope. However, what Larnord hadn't told them was that he had basically walled it off with an extra bookcase, mounted over the archway, and an endless series of old volumes.

"Have you read all of these?" Finkle asked.

"I've read all of them more than once," the Mallathorn replied. "Your civilization is obsessed with not only documenting its own collective history but also the perception of these events from a particularly political point-of-view."

"Yeah," the old man muttered. "Welcome to Earth."

Finally, the three of them – Parker, Finkle, and Nina – put all of their weight into the push. Parker heard the last bolt snap angrily, and then he felt the bookcase give, slowly sliding away from the wall under their force, whining every inch of the way. Eventually, it cleared, and they stopped. Panting to catch his breath, he turned and looked at the door. It was traditional – one solid metal piece with what remained of a smashed doorknob, crushed under the weight of the case, dangling on one side. He walked over, yanked at the debris, and watched as the metal pieces dropped to the floor. Exposing the latch, he reached inside with a single finger and pulled it back. He heard the door crack, and he opened it.

"What the ...?"

His best guess was that the small room – it couldn't be more than eight feet by eight feet – was an elevator. There was a small control panel, but the lights were dark.

"Larry," he tried, "where does this elevator go?"

"Down," the Mallathorn replied.

"Thanks, Einstein," the chrononaut quipped. "Anything else you want to tell me about what we're going to be looking at once we go down and these doors open? I'm really don't care much for surprises, and, as you know, this whole BackStep has been one ugly surprise after another."

The alien nodded. "I believe I once heard it called 'the Catacombs.'"

"Catacombs?"

"Yes, Frank."

Parker bobbed his head. He didn't like the sound of it. The Pentagon had sub-levels, and one of them contained the alien. What else lurked beneath such a revelation? He refused to guess.

"Thanks, Larry."

Nina stepped in first, moving up to the panel and examining it. Finkle followed, his gun now removed from his waistline and resting comfortably in his grip. The Mallathorn entered next, and Parker followed.

"I'm not sure if this thing has any power, Frank," Nina announced, kneeling down to get a closer look. She tapped several buttons, but nothing happened. "My guess is that it's always been powered on some kind of auxiliary system. The power possibly shuts down automatically from disuse. If you want to have it re-initialized, then you have to do so from the facilities main power room. Usually it's accomplished with the simple flip of a switch ... but that isn't an option for us right now." She shrugged. "I've seen similar configurations at so many of these secret government installations. You'd think Uncle Sam would've come up with a better way, but the technology just gets passed down from generation to generation. It's ... well I guess the best word would be 'quaint.'"

"It's also bad news," Parker told her. "Since you've seen it before, that makes you our expert."

"Oh, no," she replied, waving her hands. "I'm no expert."

"You know more than any of us, sweetheart," Finkle interjected, "so I'm siding with Frank."

"How do you get us moving?" the chrononaut added.

He watched as her helmeted head moved to and from, clearly signaling that she was looking at the panel. "With these gloves on," she began, "there's no way I can pry away the panel."

"Why would you want to do that?"

Turning back, she smiled. "Because, Ebdon, this suit is basically a walking power supply. My theory – and, trust me, it's the only one I have – is that, if we can expose the circuitry, I might be able to wake it up with a zap from the suit's power pack."

"Will that pose any danger to you?"

She frowned. "I wouldn't think so. Whereas Frank was using the independent air supply piped into it, I've turned it onto a recycling system. Basically, I'm using the suit's filter to breath the same air that you're breathing. The toxins from temporal radiation are automatically filtered out. I should be fine – and, yes, I'm stressing 'should.' We don't know for certain because we've never been in this situation before. But I wouldn't last long on an independent air supply anyway. Maybe ... maybe a few hours." Finally, she shook her head. "No, I don't think a power surge from the suit would pose any problem. If it does, then we'll just have to make lemonade."

"Lemonade?" Finkle asked.

"Life gives you lemons, Ebdon."

"Oh, yeah."

Parker moved closer to the panel. He edged himself around her, and ...

A blast filled their ears. The rush of air pounded their eardrums. Then, metal cried out as it tore away from its massive hinges, and they knew that the airlock had been fully breached. The soldiers were now in the Mallathorn's chamber – they were inside the room – and it wouldn't take them long to find them now.

"Hurry, Frank," Finkle ordered, stepping to the elevator's opening and pulling up his pistol. He aimed into the room, waiting for anyone to appear.

Quickly, Parker dropped to his knees. He found the edge of the control panel and traced it around with his fingertips. He felt a catch along the bottom, and he dug into it. Against his skin he felt the head of a screw.

Finkle heard the footsteps of men shuffling in the room. He craned his neck, but he still couldn't see anyone.

"Nina," Parker said suddenly, "are there any tools in that suit?"

"Tools?" she replied. "No. Not really. Why?"

"Never mind."

The chrononaut pulled his own pistol his waist. Palming the weapon, he released the clip, and the slide banged on the floor. Grabbing it, he found a small lip on one side where the magazine latched into the gun, and he knew there was just enough metal to use as a screwdriver. He forced the clip up to the screw, found the groove, and he turned.

Squinting, Finkle watched as he heard the creaks of heavy objects being moved. Clearly, the men were throwing around the furniture at the entrance to the room. They were searching for them. When they came up empty, they'd undoubtedly head further into the massive chamber, and it wouldn't take them long to spot one of the far bookcases pried away from the wall. The old man tightened his grip on the weapon, careful to keep his finger away from the trigger.

The screw gave, and Parker saw the panel separate slightly from the wall. He dropped the clip and shoved his fingers under the metal plate, yanking it hard, sending a small shower of brilliant sparks into his face. He opened his eyes and saw the mass of green, blue, and red wires.

"Your turn, Nina."

On the ground, he found the fallen magazine. Instinctively, he rammed it back into the pistol, rolled clear of the area, and took the position opposite Ebdon in the archway.

"Have you seen anyone?" Parker asked.

"Not yet," Finkle told him, "but I can hear them."

Nina raised her right arm. The suit had its own control panel fashioned into the cuff of the sleeve there, and she found the port for an external communications link. The female adapter was wide enough and tall enough for her to get a grip on it, and she tore it away, unsheathing a few of the power cords to the arm panel. Quickly, she wrenched one clear and pulled on it hard, trying to break it clear from its connection.

"Larry," Parker whispered.

"Yes, Frank?"

"Get down," he warned it. "Stay in that corner, and don't move unless I tell you to."

"Of course, Frank."

Then, Parker saw one of the soldiers. The man stepped around a corner, and he noticed the loose bookcase.

"Down here! Down here!"

Suddenly, the drumming of boots on the hard floor erupted, and the chrononaut knew they were about to be surrounded.

"Nina!" he yelped. "If you're going to light this Christmas tree, you'd better get it juiced now!"

The power cord finally snapped, popping out of its conductor and dangling loose.

Parker saw the lead soldier drop into a crouch, raising his rifle and preparing to fire. "Stop right there!" the man ordered.

Trusting that the military still outfitted their elite with body armor, Parker aimed for the man's chest. He fired, the gun bucking in his hand. The soldier jerked, lost his balance, and fell backward on the floor.

Two more armed guards marched into view.

Ebdon Finkle said a quick prayer, and then opened fire.

"Now, Nina, now!"

Desperately, she jammed the loose wire into the panel, and the lights came alive. Pulling down the panel, she fumbled, pressing every button she could.

Underneath their feet, Parker and Finkle felt the elevator tremble with life, and they dropped backward away from the archway, allowing the door panels to shift and close.

They were on their way, and Parker silently hoped that their destination would prove safer than the Mallathorn's chamber.

END of Chapter 44


	45. Chapter 45

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 45

Five Days, Thirteen Hours, Forty Minutes

Channing Michelson glanced over the shoulder of the police technician operating the video streams. He knew that, thanks to technology, most of the nation's busiest intersections were monitored with traffic cameras, but he had no idea how wide-reaching the technology had grown. To his surprise, traffic cameras had actually captured the vehicle that screeched away from the hospital after Craig Donovan had chased the men out into the parking lot. Another camera had tracked the vehicle as it roared through two intersections ... only to be picked up by another seven cameras as it fled the scene. Eventually, photo stills showed the car abandoned, and another still clearly showed the two occupants. The tech had digitally filtered and enhanced the image. Clearly, one of the men was Richard DeMarco, global terrorist. The other man, however, was unfamiliar. The tech fed the near profile – it was the best image they had – into the government database, as well as cross-referencing the data with the NSA mainframe with Donovan's influence. Michelson watched as hundreds of faces streamed past the one still frame as the high-speed computers did their work searching for a name to go with that face.

"It would appear that they fled on foot to this area," the officer explained, pulling up a map of the business district of Washington, D.C. "We have several images of them joining a third person – a woman – and then moving into an alley. I'm still trying to locate any possible record of where they were headed."

"Keep at it," Michelson said. "And let me know if you get a name of DeMarco's accomplice."

"Yes, sir."

He turned to leave, but Bradley Talmadge caught him with a gentle hand to the chest. Michelson saw that the director was slowly closing the cover of his Blackberry, finished with a telephone call.

"What is it?"

Talmadge glanced down at the police officer, realizing that they weren't alone. He nodded in the direction of the outside hallway, and they walked together. There, they found Olga and Donovan, both sipping coffee. The director moved to the center of the small group, and he announced, "There have been ... developments."

Grimacing, Olga tried, "Aren't there always?"

His voice sounding grave, Talmadge explained, "It would seem that Isaac and Nathan have managed to co-opt some satellite photography from Russian intelligence."

"What?" Michelson asked.

"Yuri Ivanov," Donovan announced, chuckling.

"You know him?"

"No," he said, "but I know of him. He's a relic, a holdover from the days of the Cold War, if you can believe it. Ramsey's told me about him a couple of times. Apparently, the two of them met at some interagency counter-intelligence briefing in DC more than a decade ago. They struck up a pretty decent friendship, and they've been exchanging ... er ... adult beverages from several thousand miles apart."

Talmadge nodded. "Can he be trusted?"

"How should I know?" Donovan tried. "I only know what Ramsey's told me. It sounds like they're good friends." The man shrugged. "Given the present circumstances, I would think we'd want as many of those on our side as we can get."

Agreeing, the director continued. "Well, this Yuri has shared some of their satellite footage with the White House, and Ramsey believes he's been able to confirm a working theory of his: he insists that Trace Hightower is alive."

"Alive?" Olga interjected. "But how?"

"All we know for absolute certainty is that Isaac has concluded that what hit Alaska was the modification of temporal energy from a form of transit to that of a weapon," Talmadge explained.

"You're kidding?"

"I wish I were." The man shook his head. "The White House is being held hostage by Senator Arthur Pendley."

"Pendley?" Michelson asked. Leaning forward, he pressed, "Bradley, tell me it's someone other than Pendley! He serves on the Senate Oversight Committee for BackStep Operations. He's spoken out against the use of the program. He's demanded that BackStep be discontinued, for God's sake! He's blathered on about something he calls 'temporal McCarthyism' for two years now, ever since the Mallathorn came to Earth! He's no friend to us and to what we do ... but you're saying he's using our technology against the United States?"

"He's not only using it," Talmadge offered. "Right now, it's safe to say that he's holding the country hostage. He's made the demand that BackStep be officially disbanded. He wants everything we have at NeverNeverLand turned over to him. That ... and he's ordered that the government assassinated Larnord within the hour."

"You've got to be kidding?" Olga tried, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Now, wait a minute, Bradley," Donovan said, reaching out and placing a hand on the director's shoulder. "If Pendley has found a way to weaponize temporal energy, then there's no way that can be any small endeavor. He'd had to have a base of operations, and, knowing what we know, I think it's safe to conclude that the base couldn't be the size of a telephone booth. You're talking about a small installation. If he's still in Washington making overtures for control to the White House, then we need to get to him, to find out where the weapon has been built!"

"Reasonable men would agree with you, Craig," Talmadge conceded with a smile, "but we're no longer on the playing field of reasonable men. The White House has said that Pendley is strictly off limits. They had him under surveillance, but he managed to slip away. Certainly, considering Washington's vast resources, we're not going to do any better."

"Then what are we going to do?" Michelson asked. "Bradley, you can't expect us to sit back and let this lunatic take control of BackStep, to take control of the government ... can you?"

"For now, our options are few." The director tucked his hands into his pockets, momentarily lost in thought. "We're dealing with two crises right now, people, and I refuse to believe that Senator Pendley and Richard DeMarco are a coincidence. Now, Olga, that one goes to you. I want you to dig around. Find out what you can about the both of them. I believe – if you go deep enough – we're going to link a link. I want to know what that is. Quite possibly, it'll show us a weakness that we might be able to exploit." He glanced over at Donovan. "Craig, Miss Farris is our only known connection to Richard DeMarco. His profile indicates that he hunts anyone that comes to know his identity. At this point, he sees Indiri as much a threat to him as he is to us. So I want you to stay with her. He's tried to kill her once. While it pains me to say so, I strongly believe he'll come for her again." With a uncharacteristic grimness in his eyes, the director added, "I need you to take him down. DeMarco must be caught – alive – at any cost."

"Yes, sir," Donovan agreed.

"Channing," the man turned once more, "you and I are going after Arthur Pendley."

With a bemused expression, Michelson asked, "But I thought you said that the White House ordered us to stand down so far as the senator was concerned?"

Talmadge smiled. "Channing, you're very good at what you do. So far as BackStep is concerned, you've made a remarkable record, one that all of us are proud of. But ... Frank Parker had an edge – a brazenness to him – and I need that from you now. You talk to Parker, and he'd tell you that he didn't have near the measure of success he enjoyed by following rules. No, he broke them. He damn near broke them whenever he saw the chance. I can't order you to disobey the Executive Branch, but I'm telling you that it's in all of our best interests to learn everything we can about what Senator Pendley has been doing. We're on a timetable. The clock is ticking. Let's make absolutely certain that this lunatic doesn't pull the plug on everything that we do."

Slowly, the chrononaut nodded.

"Do we have any word on Frank?"

She didn't want to ask. She knew how that question – that simply inquiry – would hurt Channing. In fact, she refused to face him, but she felt his glare on her once she let the words slip.

Talmadge cleared his throat. "From what I know, the Mallathorn stronghold at the Pentagon ... has been attacked."

"What?" Donovan interrupted. "By who?"

"That's all I know," the man continued. "The White House Chief of Staff Ethan Stoddard has dispatched Colonel McGinty to the Pentagon."

"Is Frank all right?"

"I don't know anything further," Talmadge repeated. "The word came in not long before I spoke with Nathan." Knowing that his friends were looking to him for leadership, the director added, "It's Frank Parker, people. He can take care of himself. Let's not lose sight of what it is we need to accomplish." With a sense of resignation, he concluded, "Once I hear anything, I'll spread the word."

Bradley Talmadge knew that he was about to suffer a small mutiny when the police technician poked his head out of the nearby room. The officer called for them, and, as a group, they moved back into the video room.

"We have a match on DeMarco's accomplice," he said.

The director took the page from the officer, and he studied it.

"His name is Matthew Churney," Talmadge read aloud to his team. "He has several aliases under which he's been brokering arms for the Middle East. It figures. DeMarco's a terrorist. Odds are he has a long history with Churney." Scanning the page, the director read aloud, "He's been recently tied to some terrorist operations in the Gaza Strip, in Syria, and an assassination in Teheran. According to this, he moves about the world with increasingly regularity, but he maintains a base of operations here in Washington."

"Any other known accomplices?" Donovan asked.

In disgust, Talmadge concluded, "Yes. His sister."

END of Chapter 45


	46. Chapter 46

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 46

Five Days, Thirteen Hours, Twenty-Eight Minutes

"I think this proves your theory right, Nate," Mentnor said, tapping several buttons on the console in front of him, refocusing the image on the monitor. The two men in Alaska were now a crisp image, and even the reclusive Isaac Mentnor recognized the face of the President's son-in-law. It had been splashed everywhere in the previous months – in magazines, on the news, even at sporting events. "That's definitely Trace Hightower. I would imagine that the man with him is one of the Secret Service detail assigned to keep him safe." The scientist crossed his arms, leaning back in the chair. "If they're still alive, then I would only imagine that they're making for Zulu Base. That would be, after all, the only logical alternative."

"Yes," Ramsey agreed. "But if we know that, you can bet that Pendley knows it ... and, since Hightower's survival kind of throws a world class monkey wrench into his plan for world domination, we'd better do something to make sure that young man stays alive."

Quickly, they marched into the conference room, where they found an aide delivering a report to Chief Stoddard. The man read the report, his eyes fixed on the data, as Ramsey announced, "Sir, we have some intelligence that I think you should look at."

The man raised an eyebrow at him. "This wouldn't have to do with Trace Hightower, would it?"

Confused, Ramsey dropped his arms in defeat. "How did you know?"

Smiling, the chief rose from his chair. He dismissed the aide and waited for the young woman to leave the room. Once she had vanished, Stoddard announced, "After you shared with me what your operating theory was, Mr. Ramsey, I immediately assigned several of the White House military aides to gather what evidence they could that Mr. Hightower might still be alive. This is Washington, unfortunately, and word travels fast. If news of his son-in-law's survival reached the President, then you and I and Dr. Mentnor would have much to answer for. However, I thought it prudent to err on the side of caution before sharing your opinion with President Campbell."

Shrugging, Ramsey tried hard not to appear dumbfounded. "Well, what did you find out?"

"Something troubling." Stoddard moved methodically, taking each step with measured effort, as he glanced down at the papers he held in front of him. "Approximately three hours ago, an AH-64D Apache Longbow attack helicopter departed Bolling Air Force Base with a filed flight path taking them to Alaska."

Ramsey sensed the blood drain from his face. "Sir, please tell me that you're joking."

"I wish I were."

He had to figure out what to say next. Nathan Ramsey couldn't accept the defeat. It wasn't in his nature. He was stubborn – Stoddard knew that he was – and he had to prove his usefulness now.

"Sir," he began, "the Longbow is one of the staples of our tactical defense aircraft. While I'm quite certain that its top airspeed is classified, I wouldn't imagine that bird can fly more than 200 miles per hour ... at about three hours a clip ... meaning that they'd have to stop to refuel every 600 miles or so." He tried doing the math in his head, but math was never one of Ramsey's strong skills. "That's over four thousand miles!"

"I appreciate the optimism, Mr. Ramsey," Stoddard offered, "but this Longbow was part of a secret program assigned to FEMA."

"FEMA?"

"Yes," he continued. "The very wing of the government that Senator Pendley is demanding we surrender operational control over to him." The chief stopped near the conference table, and he calmly set the file he had been carrying on the polished surface. "The program has been refitting the Longbow for long-range assault response capabilities. After all, should the need arise to enact a state of martial law, the government will need to respond quickly and decisively all across the fruited plain. Who knows how far away one of these helicopters may be needed at a moment's notice." He shook his head tiredly. "Unfortunately, the specifications on the Longbow are classified. I do have someone working on that, but, by the time we have them, it very well may be too late. All I can tell you is that the base commander has assured me that this Longbow – with a single stop for refueling – will break Alaskan airspace within the next four hours."

"Seven hours flight time?" Ramsey asked incredulously. "Sir ... are you telling me we have an attack helicopter with an airspeed of 600 miles per hour?"

Stoddard threw his head back, closed his eyes, and inhaled. "Mr. Ramsey, I'm only telling you that which has been told to me." He craned his head to the right, produced a loud crack, and then brought his hand up to massage it gently. "Given everything that's happened, I stopped believing anything hours ago."

Insistent, Ramsey moved forward. "Get something in the air, sir! Take that bird down!"

"Without our satellite defenses," the chief began, "we don't know where it is. Surely, Pendley knew this, and that's why we're in this position."

"But how ..."

"You have a mole."

Both the chief and Ramsey turned to look at Isaac Mentnor.

"It's really quite simple, if you think about it," the scientist explained. "Not only has the senator taken control of your ability to use the satellite network, but he contacted you on a secure internal communications line direct to the War Room. He couldn't have done that unless someone was cooperating with him from the inside. Since Pendley had control of the satellite network long before Yuri provided us with what visual reconnaissance he had, then it's safe to assume that he could've known that Trace Hightower was still alive long before we did. But – if I'm understanding the timetable correctly, gentlemen – he didn't order this helicopter to head toward Alaska until after Nathan and I came here to the White House and you heard Nathan's theory." Mentnor walked up to the table, joining the two men. "That would indicate that someone here – someone on the inside – perhaps someone in the War Room – someone told Pendley about this intelligence. He couldn't take the chance that we'd figure it out, so he went on the offensive well before we could launch a rescue mission."

Realization sank into the chief of staff. Slowly, his shoulders slumped. His body weak, he reached out, grabbed one of the chairs around the table, pulled it away, and sat down. His eyes were fixed on an invisible spot in space. "That would make perfect sense," he finally agreed.

"No other information should leave this room, chief," Mentnor concluded.

The man slowly nodded.

"You're right, Dr. Mentnor," he said. His eyes lost focus, and then he turned to the others, smiling. "But, like the two of you, I've grown tired of the senator remaining two steps ahead of us ... and that's why I wanted you to hear this." He leaned forward and tapped a button on the table's communication console. There was an audible click from the overhead speaker, and then a woman's voice announced:

"I'm here, sir."

Stoddard grinned. "Nathan Ramsey and Dr. Isaac Mentnor, say hello to General Margaret Nash of Zulu Base Command."

Ramsey and Mentnor glanced at one another and smiled.

"Hello!"

"Hello, sirs!" she replied. "While we're not exactly enjoying the benefits of modern living, I would venture to guess that it's a bit warmer where you are as opposed to where I am!"

"That's an understatement, general," Ramsey agreed.

"Margaret," Stoddard interrupted, "what's your condition?"

The open telephone line hissed angrily with static before the woman stated, "Sir, Zulu Base has been completely dark since the ... well, sir ... I don't know what it was that hit us, but I assume it was some kind of electromagnetic pulse. Everything – our communications, our power supply, the heating system, our aircraft and vehicles – everything has been rendered inoperable."

"General," Mentnor began, "what hit your part of Alaska was a burst of temporal energy. The resulting shockwave would've behaved much like an EMP. I would imagine every circuit on the base would've fused as a result."

"That's a big affirmative, doctor," she agreed. "To be honest, we couldn't even get so much as a working telephone line up and running until thirty minutes ago. I managed to contact some folks at NORAD. They told me that the United States had suffered a terrorist attack, and they immediately connected me to the White House switchboard. Chief of Staff Stoddard has been very kind in bringing me up to speed on the current crisis."

"General," Ramsey interrupted, "have you heard anything from Trace Hightower's group?"

"No, sir," she replied, "we haven't. However, as I said, communications has been down."

"But you can mobilize?"

"Yes, sir. We haven't a single working vehicle to complete any air or land extraction, but I've assembled several squads to go out into the cold, on foot, to search for him and his party. Mr. Hightower left Zulu two days ago. I don't know precisely where he was headed, but Chief Stoddard has shared with me the satellite images that our Russian comrades were so polite to offer. I believe we have an idea of his possible location, assuming that he headed back in our general direction after the blast."

Ramsey nodded. "Any idea of how soon you may locate him?"

"Mr. Ramsey, it's really impossible for me to speculate," she said. "Besides, over the last year, speculation hasn't really been my forte. As you can imagine, Zulu Base has been fairly quiet. Much of the time we're cleaning equipment, running drills, burning heating oil, and the like. We've always been prepared to serve as a point of defense for a first strike coming against troops crossing over from the former Soviet Union. Since the wall came down, the Joint Chiefs have largely kept us around to service intelligence. Given our location, we're prime real estate as a listening post for much of Asia. Otherwise, it's pretty barren up here."

"That's where you come in, Nathan," the chief interjected.

He placed a hand on his chest. "Me?"

"Yes." Stoddard raised his head so that he could speak clearly in the direction of the open microphone. "General, I wanted you to hear the orders I'm conferring on Nathan Ramsey. He currently serves as the Chief of Security for the BackStep Program, and he's been a tremendous resource for us here at the White House in this situation." Pivoting in his chair, the man faced Ramsey. "Nathan has a contact with what's left of the Soviet Union – a Mr. Yuri Ivanov."

"Yes, sir," the general replied. "I've heard of General Ivanov."

"Very good."

Stoddard winked.

"Mr. Ramsey will be asking General Ivanov's assistance. Given the fact that yours are the closest birds to provide tactical support to an incoming military threat and given the fact that your birds are presently grounded due to circumstances well beyond our control, I am exercising my authority to extend all diplomatic courtesies to General Ivanov. I will have Mr. Ramsey contact the general to request that Ivanov dispatch three Russian helicopters. These birds will enter your airspace for the expressed purposes of – should it become unconditionally necessary – providing tactical air defense support on your behalf and aiding in the search for the President's son-in-law. Is that clear? Do you understand that General Ivanov's men have been granted full assurances of their safety in return for their cooperation?"

"Yes, sir."

"Pardon me if I'm repeating myself, Margaret," Stoddard said, "but you'll forgive me for not wanting any international incidents occurring on my watch: are you absolutely clear on what it is we're trying to accomplish here?"

"Zulu Base will serve join General Ivanov and his crew in a joint mission between our two forces to rescue Trace Hightower, sir. You have my word that the general will enjoy our complete cooperation."

"Thank you, Margaret," he stated. "I'll talk to you soon."

With that, he hung up.

Confused, Ramsey held his hands out from his side. "What did I just volunteer for?"

Stoddard rose. "Nathan, I'm sorry, but I have no one else to turn to."

"But I'm not field ops."

"You'll do fine."

The man felt his heart pounding in his stomach. "But I'm not certified field ops," he tried again.

The chief pressed a firm hand on Ramsey's shoulder. "Nathan, I said earlier that I had something for you to do. This is it. You've been of tremendous service here, but I need your expertise out there, in the field. I need you to contact Yuri Ivanov. The two of you are old friends. Clearly, he trusts you. Right now, this country needs your friendship to serve the national interest. Tell him what we're up against. Tell him that the threat posed by Senator Pendley ... if it isn't contained right here, right now ... it will decidedly take on global implications very quickly. I need you to convince him to loan the United States government three defense helicopters closest to Alaska. They have to beat Pendley's team there. That's an absolute necessity."

"But what about me?"

"After you convince Yuri," Stoddard continued, "you'll be helicoptered from the White House lawn to Bolling Air Force Base. I have an F-15 Eagle standing by. I have no doubt that, at Mach 2.5, you'll also beat that modified Apache Longbow to Alaska with enough time to spare to meet up with Yuri's men and take command of this mission."

Unable to speak, Ramsey turned – pale – and glanced at Mentnor.

The scientist only smiled.

"Nathan, can you do this for me?" the chief asked. "Do you think you can convince General Ivanov to cooperate?"

The man swallowed, gulping down the bile that had suddenly crept up his throat.

"I'm going to need a helluva lot more than a few cases of Jack Daniels to do it, sir."

END of Chapter 46


	47. Chapter 47

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 47

Five Days, Thirteen Hours, Fifteen Minutes

"It's good to know," Parker began, "that the world is going to hell in a hand basket, and we're just going to sit this round out."

The escape plan hadn't quite worked out as well as any of them had hoped. In fact, it was a virtual disaster. The doors had closed in the knick of time, staving off the advance of the heavily-armed soldiers; the elevator had descended downward, clicking and clanking from disuse past several levels; and then ... it had stopped. Halted. Ended. The doors didn't open on any floor. The lights had flickered for several moments, trying hard to stay illuminated, but, in the end, even they had given out. Now, the four of them – Frank Parker, Ebdon Finkle, Nina Welles, and the Mallathorn – sat peacefully in the closed unit waiting for some miracle to happen.

"You are overly hard on yourself and your friends, Frank," the alien said.

Parker lifted his head long enough to glare at it. "Shut up, Larry."

"It's got a point, Frank."

"You shut up, too, Ebdon."

"All right, son. I was just trying to keep it interesting."

"Yeah, yeah." The chrononaut fidgeted with the nine millimeter on the floor, eventually twirling it around in a complete circle. "Hey, does anybody wanna play spin-the-pistol?"

"Oh, Frank," Nina muttered.

"What?" he quipped. "Don't tell me that you're going to start in on me now?"

She faced him in the darkness, turning away from the exposed control panel. Even in the dim light, she guessed that he could see the derision in her expression.

"My bad," he said.

"It isn't anyone's fault," she finally replied, again focusing on the panel. She held her arm up to it, gradually pricking and poking some of the exposed wires with the power cable from the containment suit. "The Mallathorn told you that he's never had any cause to use this escape shaft. You know – as well as I do – that nothing lasts forever ... especially if it sits unused for so long. Quit complaining and just ... just ... just spin your pistol."

"Does that mean you want to play?"

"No, I don't want to play."

Abandoning the weapon where it lay, he crawled over to where she worked in silence. He admired her tenacity. If it weren't for his fatigue – how long had it been since he had had any good sleep? – he would've been more helpful. Right now, he found it increasingly difficult to concentrate. He was out of his element. In most BackStep missions, he was pumped up on adrenaline, running around, guns blazing, saving the world. Here, he sat in a pair of hospital-style scrubs on the floor of an elevator with nothing but his social skills to avert disaster ... and it wasn't working.

"How's it going?" he asked.

A spark danced between the cable and an exposed red wire. She jumped, more shocked than hurt, and let out a brief shriek.

"I guess I don't need to ask."

"It's not going well," she admitted finally, ignoring the challenge and slumping to the floor, joining her roommates. "I wish ... I wish it were going better."

"Don't we all?"

"I'm not so sure that we do."

He knew he wasn't being the most social collaborator, but he didn't think he deserved that insult. "Take it easy, Nina. We're all tired. Can't you tell?"

"Yes," she agreed, clearing her throat and resting solidly against the wall. "I know that, Frank, and I'm sorry I snapped at you. To tell you the truth, I think I'm getting suit-fatigue."

"Oh," he said, sliding closer so as to give her some support to lean against. Sensing his shoulder, she eased her weight onto him. "Yeah ... having been out of that thing for so long, I've forgotten what a burden it can be. How are you doing?"

She sighed, allowing her body to relax, molding as lazily as she could to the wall and his shoulder. "I think pulling the power cable might not have been such a bright idea after all."

"What do you mean?"

Reaching up, she tapped her gloved finger against the helmet. "I may've short-circuited the re-breather," she confessed. "It helps remove the cardon dioxide we naturally exhale from the filtration system. If it's operating normally, you should be able to hear the soft hum of the coolant fan."

"Can you hear anything?"

She grimaced behind the clear faceplate. "Well, I can hear it, but it's starting and stopping intermittently. I'm not exactly an expert on this equipment, but I wouldn't imagine that's a good sign."

Parker felt her sink into him briefly, and he brought his arm up, over her head, and clasped her on the shoulder, pulling her closer to him. "Then ... take a break, will you? I know we have to get out of here, but you've been working as those wires since the elevator came to a stop. That and the lack of sleep probably have all of us on edge."

"I don't want to sleep."

"I won't let you fall into a deep sleep, Nina," he cautioned her. "Just nap. You know? Catch a few zee's. Ebdon and I are right here. We won't let anything happen to you."

"Not a deep sleep, right?"

"You have my word."

At that, he watched as she smiled, closing her eyes and allowing her mind to drift. After a few minutes of silence, he noticed her mouth slip open a bit, guessing that she had succumbed to her own exhaustion, and he balanced her weight against his chest.

"You are very noble, Frank."

Parker glanced up into the wide-open oval eyes of the alien.

"What's that supposed to mean, Larry?"

"I've watched you in your time travels," it confessed, its tentacles dancing lightly in the air. "You've always shown a tremendous compassion for y our fellow man, often at the expense of your own personal safety."

"That's what a great American does," Finkle chimed in. He had started to relax, as well, shutting his eyes but keeping his hand on his pistol. "Frank's a great American. You should be happy that he's here."

The chrononaut smirked at the irony: Larnord had made it entirely possible for Parker to be here. He thought about correcting the old man, but then he decided against it.

"Is this part of your re-ordering time, Larry?" he asked.

"What?"

"This," he said. "The four of us? Trapped like rats in a cage."

"I do not believe we are trapped, Frank."

"Sure we are," he told the being. "What's going to happen once those commandos who raided your bedroom up there get the bright idea to climb down after us?"

"They are persistent," the Mallathorn agreed.

"Yes, they are." He felt Nina shift a bit to get more comfortable, and he paused. "Great Americans tend to be noble, but other great Americans can be misled ... like those soldiers up there. They've been obviously given an order to take you, Larry, and I don't know if that means 'dead' or 'alive.' Did you think about that before you did your temporal housekeeping?"

Calmly, the alien shook its head. "I am doing – like you are, Frank – what must be done for the good of all."

"Keep telling yourself that, pal."

Suddenly, Parker heard Ebdon snoring, and he knew that he'd better serve his friends by shutting up, letting them sleep, and using the quiet time to figure out some way out of this mess.

"I meant no harm, Frank."

"Yeah," the chrononaut muttered. "No one ever does."

END of Chapter 47


	48. Chapter 48

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 48

Five Days, Thirteen Hours

"Mr. President, the red phone is ringing," Stoddard announced toward the intercom from his chair at the conference table. He glanced up briefly into the pensive, studied eyes of Isaac Mentnor – the Chief of Staff had specifically requested that the scientist be present for the conference call. The older man nodded succinctly as if he knew what thoughts were swirling in the chief's head.

"I'm ready, Ethan."

"Yes, sir."

His hand steady, the chief reached out and tapped the intercom button on the priority telephone.

"I'm here, Senator Pendley."

"Very good," the elder statesman said through the receiver. "Might it be safe for me to assume that you are not alone for this call?"

"That's correct, sir. I have the President on the line."

"Hello, Arthur," Mentnor heard.

"Thank you for joining us, Mr. President."

"Whenever this nation is in peril, Arthur, I think you know me to be the type of leader who would be here."

"I assumed it was the expressed position of your Administration to refrain from negotiating with terrorists?"

Mentnor bit his cheek in anger. Despite his strong feelings for pacifism, he wanted to reach out, to stretch his arms through the secure line, to strangle Arthur Pendley. What kind of a way was that to speak to the President of the United States? What kind of a method was this to defy every citizen's right to freedom by usurping control of the world's only remaining superpower away from the representative democracy? Even a law-abiding scientist had his limits, and the senator had to be stopped.

Snap. Snap. Snap.

The man shook his head at the sound of the chief snapping his fingers together. The two men locked eyes briefly, Stoddard gesturing at the laptop in front of Mentnor, and he clicked on the telephone tracing program. Of course, he wouldn't be foolish enough to even attempt to trace where Pendley was; after all, the man had not long ago visited the White House when he made his initial demands. Isaac wanted to know where the secure executive telephone line had been breached, and he was damned if he wasn't going to find out.

"Arthur," the President announced, "it's been the expressed position of this government and the preceding several Administrations not to negotiate with terrorists. The lessons of history have shown such an endeavor to be an exercise in futility. I've simple continued that policy. You know that."

Stoddard grimaced at the laughter coming over the open connection. "Yes, I do know that."

"I'm quite certain," the chief interrupted, "that you didn't call here to discuss a long-standing policy, senator."

"Of course not."

"Then let's have at it, shall we?"

"Tsk, tsk," Pendley replied quickly. "You needn't be so abrupt, Ethan. I've always admired your dedication to maintaining focus. I see no reason to be rude."

"If it's all the same to you, Arthur," the President negotiated, "I tend to side with Ethan. You're calling to discuss the progress we've made toward meeting your demands. Why don't we mutually agree to stick to the matter at hand and avoid any further attacks of a personal nature? You've made your superiority in this situation quite clear. You've taken the life of my son-in-law, you've killed Trace in nothing less an act of cold-blooded murder, something as heinous as has ever been perpetrated on any sitting president. As a result, I think you can understand my desire to avoid any sidebars. Let's keep this focused and objective."

Mentnor counted the ticks of the clock of pure silence. He wasn't certain how the senator would take such a vicious backlash, but he was glad to hear that the President wasn't going into this lightly.

"As you wish, Mr. President."

"Let me start by saying, for the record, that you can understand my hesitation to serve up the head of an emissary sent to us by an alien civilization whose intelligence vastly surpasses our own."

"I do, sir, but it was a demand, not a request."

"I don't care, Arthur. What matters is that we should stop this before it goes any further, before it goes so far astray that we can't come back to some level of mutual understanding. If you want to make demands, then I'll hear them as I have, but don't delude yourself for one moment by believing I'll accept your word for the truth. Look at your tactics! Look at what you've done! I find your behavior reckless, and, despite your position, it shows absolutely no regard whatsoever for the sanctity of life, not necessarily human."

"Of course, it didn't, sir. That was never my intent. It is, however, a means to an end."

"To what end, may I ask?"

"I've been perfectly clear that the BackStep Program should be discontinued, haven't I?"

"I believe your specific words were that this Administration was engaging in some kind of ... what was it ... some kind of 'temporal McCarthyism'?"

Again, Pendley laughed. Mentnor tried to drown out the effect it had on him by concentrating on the computer's screen. Several internal White House communications junctions were highlighted. The trace program was working. He wasn't sure how long it would take, but at least he knew that it was working.

"Yes, sir. I consider what we've been doing – trampling through time, altering the course of predetermined events – to be far more reprehensible than anything I've done. People are being denied their inalienable right to risk. You've removed it. You've sterilized the world for them, and, in doing so, you're irrevocably altered life to the point of sheer boredom."

"We've saved millions of lives, Arthur. We've saved Americans. We've saved citizens of every nation. We've stopped death and destruction in its tracks. I don't understand how this kind of benevolence can ever be interpreted as a bad thing for humanity."

"People die, Mr. President," the senator responded. "Birth and death are really the only constants in the universe. You can throw out the old adage applying to taxes because your Administration keeps rolling out one tax cut after another. Eventually, your vision of government won't be able to sustain itself. Eventually, there won't be a need for any vision because time – life, death, events – have become transitory under your policy. Don't be so naïve. The only measure humankind was ever intended was its own existence ... not one homogenized by men and women tinkering with remaking the fabric of the cosmos in their own image."

"We're saving lives, Arthur."

"Which was never our responsibility to begin with, sir."

"You're wrong."

"Am I?"

"Yes," the President insisted. "You are. We don't measure a life by markings on a tombstone, Arthur. We measure it by what we contribute in the time we're given between those dates."

"How prosaic. Be careful, Mr. President, or I might begin to suspect this is an election year."

"Arthur," Stoddard suddenly interrupted, "if you succeed in this plan of yours, do you honestly think you'll be remembered solely for having lived, or do you think you'll be remembered for doing what you did? For disassembling the BackStep Program? For remaking humanity in 'your' image?"

"Gentlemen," the senator stated, "I really have never entertained such juvenile notions of what history will make of me. Unlike the President, I'm not interested in any legacy. This isn't a venture for personal gain. Rather, I wish to see my contribution simply made because I believe it's right. I believe it's just. I believe it's necessary."

"But you've demanded the head of the Mallathorn, Arthur? How is that right? How is that just? How is that necessary?"

"Mr. President, the Mallathorn possesses the understanding of what makes time travel possible, and that is precisely why that creature's death is central to achieving this objective. You could surrender the entirety of the BackStep operations to me, but, if Larnord survives, who will stop you from simply creating another one? Who will stop you from simply sending a chrononaut back in time seven days before these events began in order to stop me from tipping the first domino? If you expect me to take your word for it, then you frame me as the bigger fool."

"Arthur," the President began, "be reasonable."

"Sir, would you cease the operations if I simply asked it?"

The computer pinged. Mentnor glanced at the connections – he had it! He had the source of the tap into the communications line. Once Stoddard sent a team to retrieve the tap, then the scientist might be able to make something of the technology, to trace it back to whoever on the staff placed it there ... and, then, they might be able to stop Pendley's quest.

"No. I wouldn't cancel BackStep if you asked."

"Then I must have the technology."

"Will you destroy it?"

"What does it matter?"

"I believe it matters a great deal."

"Do you believe – after all I've said – that I would use it?"

"Arthur, the lure of power is a road with many destinations."

"Mr. President, do you believe I would use it?"

"I believe you would."

"I give you my word."

"Your word means nothing," the man replied, "not when you're willing to extort this government to achieve your goals."

"I would suppose, then, that this telephone call does not matter."

"To the contrary, Arthur. I think this call is a beginning. Given the predicament, we have to start somewhere, and this will be our beginning ... if you'll let it be. When you started down this road, you knew this path wasn't going to be easy. You knew I wouldn't acquiesce without trying to show you what I believe are serious errors in judgment."

"I do not believe that it matters."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because I assume by now that you are aware of the fact that I've taken control – limited control – of those military personnel assigned to FEMA."

"Yes, I am aware."

"And I assume that you are aware that I've send my own troops into the Pentagon to capture that alien, to kill the Mallathorn if absolutely necessary?"

"Yes, I am aware that the Pentagon installation has been raided, Arthur. But as you kept your word, as you've made this call to discuss your demands, I may also assume that you retain enough dignity to know that what you are doing and the manner in which you are doing it is wrong. I know you, Arthur. I've seen you serve this country, and I know that – despite what you may personally believe – you are not evil. You do not want to do this."

Mentnor studied Stoddard's expression. Sadly, the man shook his head. This wasn't going to turn out the way they had all hoped.

"Are there no dead at the Pentagon?"

"Some of our staff fell," the President agreed, "but they died in service to their country."

"Then you do know what I'm capable of?"

"I know that your men, thus far, have failed."

"I could use my weapon, sir, to destroy the entire Pentagon."

"But you have not, Arthur, because you still believe in this country. You may feel that we've strayed from the right path, but I know you. You're not about to bring down America."

"Those men will find Larnord," the senator insisted, "and they will bring it to me."

"And I give you my word that there are others who right now are working to stop you and to stop those men, Arthur. We will not stand idly by while you ..."

"Mr. President, do not play chess with me."

"I mean you no disrespect, Arthur."

At the end of the table, Mentnor watched as Chief Stoddard leaned forward, tired, burying his face in his hands.

"Will you surrender control of the BackStep Program to me?" Pendley demanded.

"No, I will not."

"Will you deliver me the head of that alien whose science has poisoned your soul?"

"No, I will not."

"Will you issue the Executive Order granting control of the Executive Branch to me?"

"No, I will not."

The line grew silent, as if the parties had suddenly disconnected. Mentnor knew that the call hadn't been a successful negotiation. He trusted the bad things would happen as a result.

"Then I must show you the price for your insolence, Mr. President."

"No one ever gave you that authority, Arthur. You took it yourself."

"I have taken it, sir, and I give you my word: you and the people you love so dearly will regret your refusal to meet my demands."

The line clicked dead.

"Ethan?"

The chief lowered his hands. "Yes, Mr. President?"

"The Cabinet is currently drawing up what they've termed to be strategic objectives and other points of national interest that might be in jeopardy of being struck by this weapon. Clearly, we're on a course for catastrophe right now, so there's significant concern over what, when, and how we release these details to the press. They're aware that there's been some sort of terrorist attack, and they understand that all transportation has been locked down ... but this could get very messy very quickly. Now, I'm not going to sugar-coat this for you. Given Pendley's position, I strongly feel that the most likely target is the White House. I can't risk you staying there any longer."

"But, sir, why don't we just have the Secret Service locate the senator and take him into custody?"

"There may not be time, Ethan. As it stands, there isn't a single one of us convinced over here that Pendley is even in direct control of the weapon. We can't agree that it's even on our soil. Pendley has traveled so much throughout the Middle East that there's a running theory the weapon is located somewhere overseas. He would need some kind of installation, and I have our best and brightest down in Langley working on where the senator may've diverted funds to have this structure built. We just don't know. Now, the Joint Chiefs are presently debating the strategy – along with the Attorney General – over what procedures we must follow in order to declare martial law should it become necessary."

"Mr. President ..."

"Ethan, there's no time to debate the merits of what I said to Pendley," the man declared. "I know that you may disagree, but we have no alternative. Giving a madman control over the fate of our planet was never on the table. This was never a matter of negotiation. This was always a matter of survival."

Slowly, the chief nodded. "Yes, sir. I understand."

"Tie up any loose ends you have to," the man ordered, "and you'll be hearing from me again within two hours."

"Yes, sir."

Mentnor sat in the silence for a long time trying to figure out what to say. He trusted that the chief needed to hear some encouraging words ... but what were there? Pendley had declared the entire Earth a target, and Ethan Stoddard sat by with nothing to say. What was there to say to soften that blow, to lessen that pain?

"Let me know how I may be of service to you, Mr. Stoddard," he offered and then left the conference room.

END of Chapter 48


	49. Chapter 49

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 49

Five Days, Twelve Hours, Thirty-Seven Minutes

"Frank?"

Parker thought he heard someone call his name, but he wasn't certain. All he saw was darkness, and all he heard was rainfall ... a slow, steady tapping of heavy droplets falling down from the sky and banging against a sun-beaten aluminum roof.

"Frank?"

The pounding of the rain was measured, with pauses timed almost perfectly between the spank-spank-spank of water on metal. It was perfect, synchronized by an unseen metronome, producing an oddly resonant musical cadence ... one that only lulled the chrononaut further and further into slumber.

"Frank ... wake up."

Startled, he opened his eyes. Finkle was leaning over him, his face pressed close.

"What?" he said.

"Shhh!"

"What is it?" he whispered.

"Listen."

Staring up at the ceiling, Parker knew what he was hearing: it wasn't rain, but that's how the stress on the elevator cables sounded in his black dream.

"Sonuvabitch," he whispered.

"Someone's coming down," Finkle stated the obvious.

Shifting so that the sleeping Nina dropped into his arms, he caught her and put his face close to the helmet. "Nina," he tried softly, "wake up."

She didn't respond.

Hurriedly, he brought up his hand and tapped a fingertip on the glass plate over her eyes.

"Nina?"

Groggily, she moved her eyes under her closed eyelids. "What is it?"

"You have to wake up now," he told her. "The soldiers are coming down."

Her eyes opened. "What?"

"They're coming for us."

The three of them turned to face the Mallathorn. Larnord was hovering again – floating gently within the elevator car – several of his tentacles reached up from his head and lightly scraping the ceiling.

"Good morning, Frank," it said.

"Morning, Larry," Parker replied. "You wouldn't mind telling me what you're doing?"

"I'm listening."

"It looks like you're trying to clean the ceiling."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, it is."

"Actually, my tentacles can absorb sound at a far greater clarity than can your human ears."

"Well, there's a comfort. I'd thought you lost your tiny little alien marbles."

The alien's eyes narrowed slightly. "I don't know what that means."

"Forget about it," Parker told the being. "What can you hear ... or should I say 'feel'?"

Another tentacle gracefully ascended to join the others, and the Mallathorn tilted its head slightly, as if trying to gauge a better vantage point from which to sense the vibrations. "Three aggressors of above-average adult human male build are presently descending the cable," Larnord announced.

"Geesh! Can you tell me how much change is in their pockets?"

"Would it matter?"

"It's just a bit more detail than I'm used to."

"I apologize, Frank."

"No problem, Larry."

Finkle took a step closer to the alien. "I don't suppose those bright tentacle of yours can drum up some way to get us out of this mess, can they?"

"My tentacles are not cognizant tools," the Mallathorn said. "They are principally sensory organs, much like the human tongue."

"Are you trying to tell me that you're wiping your tongue on that elevator?"

"In a matter of speaking ... I am."

"That's gross, Larry," the old man observed.

Suddenly pulling his head away from the ceiling, Larnord said, "After brief reflection, I would concur."

"Enough of the small talk, boys," Parker snapped. "Larry, when the Pentagon brass installed this elevator, I don't suppose they told you how deep it goes?"

"I only know for certain that it descends into the Catacombs."

"Which is what ... exactly?"

"It is ... it is more reading material."

"What are you talking about?" the chrononaut asked. "More books?"

"No," the alien answered. "It is not books, Frank. It is the Pentagon's reserve of files."

"Files?"

"I've heard of that," Nina offered. "Some of the folks down at the CDC said that they had performed some research from the Pentagon's vast storehouse of files. They were working on a project involved a strain of the Ebola Virus detected in the American northwest, somewhere up in Oregon. They weren't given unrestricted access to the storehouse, but one of them had seen through an open door into the stockroom. He said – from what he saw – it went on forever, row after row of shelving units, all of them lined with files."

"Just what we need," Parker said tiredly. "Another library."

"But, Frank, if it is that large," Finkle began, "then maybe we can hide out down there for awhile."

"Indeed," the alien agreed. "The Catacombs have an extensive transport system – a monorail – which allows its custodians to quickly travel about its several miles."

"Miles?"

"Yes."

"Several miles?"

"Yes, Frank. That is what I said."

"Why didn't you say so?" The man pulled his pistol out of his waist. Turning, he held it out to Nina. "You take this."

"What am I going to do with this?" she asked, taking the pistol in her gloved hand.

"You and Ebdon are going to stand guard while Larry and I get this door open."

"Guard?"

"Yes," he said. "If those men get to the top of this elevator car, then they're going to have easy access to that hatch. Now, keep in mind that these are military we're dealing with. They aren't going to drop in and take heavy casualties. They're going to force that hatch open, and they're going to toss in a smoke bomb, tear gas, something like that." He pointed up at the ceiling. "If you hear them touch down, you start firing ... up ... through this roof. You keep them away from that hatch as long as you can ... or at least long enough for Larry and I to get these doors apart."

Following his directions, she moved with Ebdon along the rear of the car. The Mallathorn glided through space, stopping at Parker's side.

"I do not possess tremendous strength, if that's what you were thinking, Frank."

"No," he agreed, "but you're handy with that telekinesis."

"All Mallathorn are psychically-inclined."

Fine," he said, stepping up to the door. "You use your brain, I'll use my brawn."

"What I am doing ... exactly?"

"Concentrate on these doors opening." Quickly, Parker reached up and tapped the alien's forehead. "See the ball, be the ball."

Again, its eyes closed slightly. "I don't understand what that means."

"That's not the first time you said that."

Parker slipped his hands along the crack between the elevator panels. They were sealed tightly. Pressing with his fingertips, he dug in, and they parted slightly. He couldn't lodge an entire finger in the gap he had created, but he had enough of a edge to create some leverage. Leaning to the side, he used all of his body weight, crouching with a low center of gravity, and he readied himself.

"All right, Larry," he announced. "One ... two ... three, think!"

The doors gave a full inch under their added force, and Parker quickly slipped his hand into the divide. He felt the edge of the rubber guardian, and he pressed hard onto it. In normal circumstances, the door would've opened; this time, however, it was perfectly sealed.

'Probably a safety measure,' he thought. 'I wouldn't want anyone breaking into the Pentagon, either.'

He heard a muffled thud overhead.

"Someone's on the car!"

"Shoot!" he ordered. "Don't fire continuously! Give them one shot at a time!"

Nina fired first. Her bullet easily tore through the metal, producing a hiss of air draining from the elevator shaft into the car.

Angrily, Parker kicked at the gap, driving the heel of his foot into the opening. He slid down to the floor, pressed his back against the wall, and steadied himself.

"All right, Larry," he said, "again ... on three ... one ... two ... three, think!"

The man pushed with his legs, the Mallathorn with its mental ability, and the door cracked, separating at least another three inches.

Finkle aimed at the ceiling, targeting the metal strip directly beside where he guessed the trapdoor to be, and he fired. His shot ripped through, and they all heard the muffled screech. The bullet sliced into his leg, and he stumbled backward, falling into the support cable he had used to rappel the elevator cable.

Through the narrow, Parker saw light.

"Nina!" he cried. "Get over here! Pull that other door!"

She holstered the pistol, lunging past the hovering alien, slamming into the other door. Sliding to the floor, she smacked her feet up against the edge opposite Parker, and she nodded.

"Altogether," he ordered. "One ... two ... three!"

Again, the door barked angrily back at them, but the panels slid away another ten inches and then another ten more, given them more than enough room to get out.

"That's good! That's good!"

Hustling, Parker sunk to his belly and stuck his head through the opening. He looked down the hallway, found it empty, and knew they had their escape.

"Let's go, people! Let's go!"

Taking the pistol from Nina, he helped her down to the floor, through the opening, and watched as she dropped to the floor, rolling to absorb the shock. As quickly, she rose, reaching up to help the Mallathorn through the opening.

"Ebdon, let's go!"

The old man lowered himself to the floor. Parker took him by the arm, sliding him through the gap and into the arms below.

The trapdoor suddenly snapped open.

"Dammit!"

In one move, Parker threw himself onto his back, into the far corner of the car, and he raised the nine millimeter.

BLAM! BLAM!

He fired twice into the darkness but not before the smoking canister dropped in through the hatch and fell straight down to land in his stomach. Closing his eyes and holding his breath, he swiped hard across his torso, knocking the bomb onto the floor, and he rolled toward the doors. He slipped his head through and caught a breath of fresh air, opening his eyes in time to see Nina slap his hands to his shoulders, drop to the floor, and pull him out of the car, tumbling in the air until he came to a rough landing on top of her, their faces pressed up against the respective sides of the protective glass bubble. Then, after the surprise wore off, she laughed at him, and he laughed at her as Finkle managed to close the door with the push of a button on the wall.

"That's enough, you two," the old man swore. "Get up off your asses, and let's get out of here!"

END of Chapter 49


	50. Chapter 50

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 50

Five Days, Twelve Hours, Twenty-Nine Minutes

Arthur Pendley sat on the rear of his limousine silently contemplating what he should do next.

He had anticipated the President's response, but he had assumed that, given the severity of the threat, there would be ceremonially concessions offered. He wasn't exactly certain, at this point, what he had truly wanted, but he came away from the phone call with absolutely nothing ... other than a threat he now had to act on. The President had called his bluff, Stoddard had tried to make peace, and Pendley had threatened to continue down this course of action. What more was there? Could he do it? Could he actually strike his own country again? He knew what the Elders wanted; they wanted death, destruction, collapse, and ruin ... but did he truly want the same? He had erringly convinced himself that someone – anyone – in the Administration would force the President to concede something. Anything. A truce. An agreement. A compromise.

But nothing?

Were they all that convinced? No, he told himself. He knew them well enough to know that this was Campbell's trump card to play. He knew the lapdogs would fall obediently to the feet of their commander-in-chief, as they had done previously. He cursed himself for refusing to see the harsh reality weighting him down at the shoulders now. He cursed himself for beginning this ... this ... this crusade without having admitted to himself it would end miserably. He cursed himself for taking the word, taking the direction, taking the money from the Elders. Washington had taught him well that words, promises, oaths were conditions of circumstance, inconvenience, irrelevance. They were meant to be broken. They were transient. They didn't last. But money? Big money carried with it a credible permanence that he couldn't deny. The Elders had expectations. They wanted results. They intended to bring down America, and, now, he was part of their insane league. He was a collaborator against his own country – a traitor, in every sense of the word – and now he couldn't think of how he could save it.

Growing weary, he stepped down onto the concrete and moved back into the limousine. His laptop was lit up, and he stared at the blinking cursor.

AMIR: I have been expecting your update.

He closed his eyes. The strain of activity had worn on him. He took a deep breath, held it, and then released it slowly. Opening his eyes, he placed his fingers to the keys and began typing.

PEND: My apology. I have been delayed.

AMIR: I have been expecting your update, senator.

Pendley glanced up at the back of the limo driver's head. The man was clearing leaning forward, reading some newspaper, magazine, or book. 'What delight' there must be in taking a time-out from the world, he thought.

PEND: The White House has refused my demands.

AMIR: You will begin the second phase.

The senator's palms suddenly grew moist with sweat. He stared at the brief response, considering the alternatives, and then took another breath.

PEND: I believe we should talk.

AMIR: There is nothing to be said.

PEND: I'm not convinced that this is their final decision.

AMIR: You said they had refused.

PEND: I will show them what we are fully capable of.

AMIR: You will show them what you are capable of.

He read the words again and again. Amir was dismissing himself and the Elders from any degree of responsibility. He knew it, but he wouldn't accept that.

PEND: We have all agreed to this course of action.

AMIR: You will show them what you are capable of.

PEND: I believe we should talk.

AMIR: The time for talk has passed.

PEND: It's not that simple.

AMIR: Only you are making it complicated.

PEND: I'm trying to achieve our goals.

AMIR: My goal is to see your country eliminated.

Again, Pendley glanced up toward the limo driver when he heard the rustling of paper. The man must've shuffled his newspaper about.

PEND: There is no need of that.

AMIR: You will show them what you are capable of, or you will die.

Instinctively, he jerked his hands away from the laptop. The single sentence was simple enough, and he understood the threat to be perfectly real. He knew that the Elders had operatives within the United States – hundreds if not thousands of willing accomplices – and Arthur Pendley could never had known all of them. So far as he was concerned, his very driver – his staff driver who had served him loyally for several terms – could be affiliated directly with the terrorists or his could be a blood relative of one. Shifting, he quickly checked his pocket for his Waltham. After assuring himself that he hadn't forgotten it at home in the top drawer of his dresser, he placed his hands back at the keys.

PEND: I will not be threatened by you.

AMIR: You will show them what you are capable of.

PEND: I will not concede to threats.

AMIR: If you do not, you will be dead by tomorrow's dawn.

Pendley bit his cheek.

PEND: I wish to speak with the Master.

AMIR: The time for talk is over, Arthur.

PEND: He will speak with me, or

He didn't know what to type. He didn't know where the man was. He didn't know whether or not the man he had spoken with previously really was the Master. In a shock of realization, he guessed that he didn't even know if the man he had spoken to had any affiliation with the Elders. For all he knew, the man could've been reading from a script, rehearsed and and replayed, before Amir or any one of a hundred agents put a bullet in his head.

AMIR: I will give you until the dawn.

PEND: I will strike.

AMIR: That is your only choice.

PEND: I will strike. I give you my word.

AMIR: If you do not, you will give me your life, senator.

"Matthew?" Pendley asked.

"Yes, sir?"

"Take us back to the Heston," he said, "at once."

END of Chapter 50


	51. Chapter 51

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 51

Five Days, Twelve Hours, Twenty-Six Minutes

Before the Pentagon's Director of Security Bruce Hammett could order his best men into position, he found his meeting had been interrupted by two of the best from the White House.

"Colonel McGinty," he said, quickly holstering his Glock and extending the hand toward him, "it's good to know that we're not on an island here. Thanks for bringing Match along. You don't mind if we have him suit up?"

The colonel took the hand and gripped it firmly. "No problem, Bruce," he replied, and then he gestured for the Secret Service Agent to lose his sport jacket and don the bulletproof vest one of the Pentagon staffers had offered him. "Get another vest out of mothballs, gentlemen," he added. "I'm here under orders from the White House, so there's no way you're walking into this firefight without me."

"Sir," Bruce tried, "I'm going to respectfully request that you stand down. My men and your suit will take care of this situation."

"Easy," McGinty counseled him. "I'm not here to take your command, Bruce. I'm here to help." The colonel understood perfectly how it appeared: the White House and the Secret Service were storming in like cowboys taking over the corral from the safety of the local ranchers. He hadn't seen active combat – of any type – in quite some time. He knew this was the worst time to re-enlist for action. "You have my word that I'm not taking charge. I'm sure as hell not walking point at my age, but there's far too much at stake for me to sit this one out, either. ... so take it easy. All I want is a vest and a gun. Put me at the back of your squad, for all I care. I'm going in, and I'm leaving everything else – the ops, the tactical, the targets – is your call."

With a knowing smirk, Hammett tried, "Is Campbell still in the big chair?"

"The President is, yes."

Easily, he handed over the Glock. "Then welcome to the fight."

* * *

"Over here!"

Parker took up the rear, watching over his shoulder back toward the hallway they had just left, his Baretta up to shoulder height. He traced the path they had come with the muzzle, making sure the business end kept pointing back in the direction all of them had heard the two remaining soldiers break through the elevator and drop to the floor. He didn't want to be caught in a firefight, not with all of these people under his care, but, to his frustration, it appeared inevitable. All he could hope for was that they could lose themselves inside the Catacombs – they were just ahead – before they were trapped.

The Mallathorn led the way, wovering along the corridor, its tentacles lazily trailing behind like wind blown hair. The alien held up one of his thin fingers, gesturing toward the massive sliding door at the approaching conclusion to the dark hallway. "There it is," it said, "as I said it would be."

"You're a saint, Larry."

"Not really, I'm not, Frank."

"It's another figure of speech."

"You really heavily on them, Frank."

"Call it a bad habit."

They reached the door, and Nina – unable to stop her speed as quickly thanks to the cumbersome suit – slammed into the metal, taking hold of its thick horizontal edging to keep herself from falling. Ebdon placed a hand on her back and then, quickly, turned about, pressing his back up to hers, bringing up his Beretta and aiming down the hallway.

"I've got your back, Frank!" he called.

"Thanks, Ebdon."

Parker reached the door, and he glanced at the frame. Following it, he found a control panel – nine luminated buttons with one retinal scanner – on the right side just out of his reach.

"Larry, give me the good news that you know how to open this!"

Leisurely, the alien drifted lower, bringing its eyes in line with the scanner.

"I have good news indeed, Frank," it replied. "All of the subterranean rooms have been calibrated with sensors to recognize my distinct retinal pattern."

"That's good to hear!" Nina chirped.

"Good," Parker agreed. "Get it open, then."

The Mallathorn blinked at the scope. The glow from the conical device turned from red to green, and they all heard the hiss of the door's hydraulics release. Reacting, Ebdon wrapped his hand around his back, snagged Nina's waist, and pulled her away as the door slid aside. Parker felt a wash of cool air as the dark room beyond revealed.

"Holy Hell," he swore. "Will you look at all that kindling?"

The room, he imagined, had to stretch forever. It was a deep as it was wide, with bookcases lined with bound material as far as the eye could see. The lighting was dim – the room was populated with hanging overhead fluorescents – and it was kept as a very cool temperature, one Parker guessed was to the benefit of the stored literature.

"Larry, what is all this stuff?"

"Your government insists on catalogued several hundred years worth of hard-copy documents," the alien explained. "While everything in here has been fully photographed and indexed visually for review by those with the proper clearance, it would appear that those men and women in charge find it difficult to part with the proof of the documents' existence."

"You can say that again."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Another figure of speech," the chrononaut remarked. "Do you know if these Catacombs have any staff? I'm a walking virus so far as my fellow man is concerned. I'm not going any further if I'm going to expose anyone."

"That isn't a smart choice, son," Ebdon offered, his eyes still locked on the corridor.

"It may not be wise," Parker agreed, "but it's the unfortunately reality. I can't go in there if I'm going to expose any more people, Ebdon. I won't do it."

"We're not leaving you behind," Nina insisted, cupped her palm in the man's elbow.

"You don't have any choice," he told her.

"If I might contribute?" the Mallathorn said. "Frank, so far as I have been told, the Catacombs do not retain any active employees. The clerks who have been assigned to this facility are located through a hatchway that appears at the end of Row K of Section 77. I would estimate that the exit is approximately nine minutes walking time."

"And?"

"And it would so happen that my metabolism, as well as yours, can pose health risks to persons who have not been inoculated with Chronoticin."

Surprised, the chrononaut glared at the alien. "You've got to be kidding me?"

"The effects of exposure are not as severe as those who would encounter you," it continued. "While encounter with you may cause the death of an innocent civilian, an encounter with me would cause merely prolonged flu-like sickness. That is the principle reason behind my containment. Your President – Mr. Campbell – has indeed offered your government's assistance should I wish to return to my people, but I took this post with full knowledge that I would remain here for the duration of my life."

"I sure hope that this story has a point, Larry."

"My point is that, like you, I do not wish to inflict harm on any resident of Earth," it stated. "As a result, I would recommend that we adopt the following strategy: Mr. Finkle and Dr. Welles shall immediately report to the Processing Center at the end of Row K of Section 77. There, they will alert all assigned personnel to vacate the facility. Once inside, Dr. Welles may remove the containment suit. As My Finkle appears immune to the effects of temporal radiation, he may return to the Catacombs, bringing the suit with him when he comes."

The man shook his head. "I don't understand," Parker shot. "Why don't we all go to this Processing Center?" He gestured at the steel panel. "Why not just lock this door behind us?"

"It is only a hermetic seal, Frank," Larnord offered. "The soldiers in pursuit are in possessing of superior weaponry. As a result, someone will need to – as you have said – take up the rear." The alien lifted a few inches in its levitation. "You and I are the logical choice."

"Yes," he agreed, "but you can't fire a gun."

"I am an overwhelming source for moral support, Frank."

"You're always holding out on me, Larry."

"I never cease to amaze," the alien agreed.

* * *

Despite Thomkins' objections, Hammett allowed Colonel McGinty onto the first elevator. Together, the three men marched in, the chief signaling for his soldiers to take the adjacent shaft. The door pinged close as the man tapped his security code into the elevator's keypad, and they descended into the underground levels of the Pentagon.

The director of security lifted his head slightly, holding up a hand, gesturing clearly for everyone aboard to remain quiet. He was receiving an update via his earpiece from Security Central. Once the feed died, he grasped the button on his shirt-mike, saying, "Affirmative."

"What's the word?" Match asked.

"The word is that I was correct," he explained. "Video surveillance has tracked the Mallathorn and his companions in Sub-Level Seventeen, Beta Corridor."

"Which means what, exactly?" McGinty tried.

Hammett adjusted his jacket so that the mouthpiece was covered. He wouldn't want to be screaming or yelling if a firefight broke out and inadvertently burst anyone's eardrum. Either that or gunfire could easily suffice over an accidentally open communications line. There were possibly going to be enough surprises that he didn't wish to add to the chaos. "When the Pentagon was selected as housing facility for Larnord, we agreed to provide only a single route for escape. That would make retrieval or support ops like we're doing now much easier as we'd know the terrain and, more than likely, the attackers wouldn't."

"How can we be sure?"

Flippant, the chief cocked an eyebrow. "This is Washington, D.C.; we're at the highest state of critical preparedness in years; and you're joining me to chase the only known living equivalent of a timelord through the secret underground of the Pentagon. I'd say that, with those facts, we can't be sure of anything."

* * *

The blast tore through the door's hydraulics easily, and the metal buckled angrily under the stress. It whined as the steel wheels cracked on their runners, the plate dropping heavily to the floor, and the supports couldn't hold the weight. Toppling, the door ripped through the wall frame, smacking hard on the floor, the clang echoing loud in Parker's ears.

He closed his eyes, listening hard for the footsteps. He didn't hear anything right away, but, after several protracted seconds, he heard the faint ticks of military boots on the concrete floor. The two remaining soldiers had breached the room, and they were moving cautiously in his direction.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness as he casually reached his head out from the alcove of the bookcase – he was lying on the third shelf down from the top – and craned his neck. He couldn't see them yet, but he trusted they were coming. At this end of the massive warehouse, there was only a single aisle – it ran down the center of several long industrial shelves – so the men had no other choice.

Parker could only trust that the Mallathorn would be in place. He had never served with the alien, so he couldn't guess at the alien's instincts. However, thus far, it had worked in complete cooperation with the rest of the group. He couldn't be certain, but Parker imagined that the being actually 'thrived' on the experience. After sitting for a few years in some Pentagon basement, it could be hungry for the excitement, but overzealousness could easily be turned against them without notice.

"You'd better be right about this, Larry," he mumbled.

He stared down the lane, watching and waiting for the soldiers to appear. The moments seemed to tick off endlessly in the wait, Parker shifting slightly to try and remove a volume from pressing into his spine. Still, he ignored the pain, his view fixed on the same spot where he guessed the men had to appear at any moment. He could no longer hear their footsteps. He guessed that the two men had gone into a complete stealth pattern, edging down the long aisle one after the other, one case at a time.

Then, he saw him.

The first man – he wore a face-hugging oxygen mask – poked his face into the darkness of the lane, glancing quickly down one way and then the next. He held his position, his stare now straight ahead, and ...

Parker saw the second man.

"Now, Larry, now!"

Both men dropped to the floor, craning their heads in the direction of Parker's scream. The lead man brought up an assault rifle, aiming down the corridor. A flashbulb lit up on the tip of it, and the chrononaut suddenly found himself squirming to stay clear of the beam of light.

As he struggled, he knocked several volumes off the shelf and onto the hard floor.

"Dammit!"

The first one slammed into the floor, and he heard the angry rattle of machine-gun fire. Shredded, the volume exploded into the air around him, raining down in a paper shower all over him and the other books.

"Hey!" he screamed. "That was probably some Medieval bestseller!"

Parker shoved the Baretta into the open air and fired. The gun shook in his hand, bucking with bursts of light, lead, and heat, and then he pulled back.

"Any time now, Larry!"

A volley of gunfire tore into the volumes on the bookcase across the aisle from him. The books bounced around helplessly, spilling open, splitting into pieces, snapping apart at the seams, flying into the air. The soldiers were good. Instead of concentrating their fire on him – he was certain that they weren't that interested in taking him alive – they were only intent on flushing him out, making him have to defend himself, wasting time and ammunition in the process ... all the while Frank Parker tried to squeeze further and further into a bookshelf, his only hope for survival.

"Larry!"

He reached out into the lane and fired two more shots.

"LARRY!"

Parker felt the breeze first on his arm. As he hastily tucked it back for safety, the wind blew on his arm and face. He shielded his eyes against the rising strength of the gale, and, before he knew it, the lane was filled with a virtual tornado, a gust of hot air tearing every sheaf of paper from the shelves, every volume from its resting place, and throwing them into the open.

"Sonuvabitch!"

The chrononaut saw the rising column of twirling books – a funnel cloud of hard and softbound literature – as it swirled angrily up, gaining momentum as it ripped down the open lane and into the aisle, where the books pummeled the two soldiers who had risen from their positions to gain a better bead on what was happening. The first man – the one who Parker guessed was the better shot – took a thick volume in the facemask, his head thrown backward violently, and then another book crashed into the side of his skull. He dropped his gun and brought his hands up to protect himself, but, before he could, he was buried under the wall of raining material, the thuds of books striking him now loud enough to hear over the howl of the wind. The second man turned, trying to flee down the aisle to whatever safety he could find, only the dancing menace – the approaching pillar of air-bound briefs – stepped on him as easily as if it were a towering ogre smashing down on a helpless ant. He fell to his knees, letting go of his rifle, and the weight of the storm overtook him, driving his legs, hips, and sternum hard to the floor, cracking his collarbone, sending him into a deep sleep from which he feared he would never awake. The train rolled over him, and he lost consciousness.

As gradually as the column had built, it dispersed. The books slowed, they listlessly drifted in a variety of direction – angry leaves in Autumn's last dying storm – and they smacked into the other bookcases, the other books, and the floor. Parker listened as the thuds died out, and he climbed out of the shelf.

"Holy Hell," he whispered.

"I believe that's the second time I've heard you say that today, Frank."

He lifted his head, and he watched as the alien slowly levitated itself to the ground, taking a position next to the tall man. Then, it glanced down the lane, studying the destruction his skills of levitation and telekinesis had wrecked on the library, and Larnord sighed in disappointment.

"I do like books so," it said.

* * *

"What was that?" Nina asked, stopping in her tracks.

Finkle turned. "Whatever it was, I don't want it to catch us." He prodded her nearby arm. "Come on, Nina. Let's keep moving."

"Frank could be hurt."

"He can take care of himself."

"But, Ebdon ..."

He stopped. Taking her by the arm, he whirled her around and put his face near the protective helmet. "Young lady, we're too far ahead of them to be of any use now. If you want to help the two of them, then we'd best keep moving ... let's get to that Processing Room ... or whatever Larry called it ... and let's get some help."

Refusing to move, she stared at the man. She didn't want to leave them back there – in fact, Ebdon almost had to drag her kicking and screaming when they heard the first strike on the door – but Parker had insisted. She never liked the idea of bringing someone out of danger and then sending them back into the thick of it, but Parker had made a living out of doing the unthinkable, the unimaginable, the impossible. If anyone could do it, she tried to convince herself, he could ... alone with his smaller snake-headed friend from another world. But she didn't have to like it.

"You're right," she finally agreed. "Let's go."

They ran hard, their legs pumping. She realized that she might be moving to fast for Ebdon. He was, after all, an old man, but he had been surprisingly agile throughout the whole affair, from the moment they had rushed into the Mallathorn's antechamber, into the elevator, and now through the Catacombs. She was sweating, weighed down by the containment suit. She couldn't wait to get it off. It had been awhile – for too long – that she had breathed unprocessed air, and she didn't have the heart to tell Frank that – back there, in the elevator – she had short-circuited the suit's rebreather. For the last thirty minutes, she was breathing contaminated air. So far as she was concerned, she might as well have abandoned the suit. It had very little meaning. Professionally, however, she convinced herself otherwise. She ignored the cold, hard reality that she had been exposed to the chronoaut's lethal radiation, and she hadn't been inoculated. To make matters worse, she didn't know if any Chronoticin was available in Washington, DC. She assumed it was – hadn't Jennings mentioned that there was a supply here at the Pentagon? But the truth was she didn't know. Her research had demonstrated that different people reacted differently to exposure. The only conclusion she could reach was that, as a person's metabolism was almost as unique as that person's fingerprints, each victim would respond differently ... however everyone responded the same – in death – if Chronoticin wasn't available and administered eventually.

She didn't know how long she had before the effects would begin to take their toll, but she was certain the first symptom – weakness – would arrive soon.

They reached Row K of Section 77, and they turned. Halfway down the lane, they could see the clearly marked exit – another steel door with an adjacent control pad. Next to it, there was a window. They'd be able to pound on the glass, to attract the attention of whoever worked inside. He'd let them out of the Catacombs. He'd quite possibly faint at the sight of her in the containment suit, but the fact remained that they'd get out. There would be others, and those people would contact Security. She'd explain their situation, and help would soon be on its way.

Then, much to her surprise, the door hissed.

Someone had seen them coming!

The metal slid out of the way, and the man – gun raised – stepped into the chamber. He aimed at them, and shouted, "Stop right where you are!"

END of Chapter 51


	52. Chapter 52

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 52

Five Days, Twelve Hours, Ten Minutes

"Dr. Mentnor," Chloe Vandemark said, "Chief Stoddard has asked me to inform you that he has arranged for your evacuation from the White House. You're to be part of the first wave taken away from the area, sir, and he's asked that you prepare to vacate in the next thirty minutes."

The scientist continued to stare at the computer screen, ignoring the voices and activity around him. He had spoken with a member of the White House maintenance group who was supporting the efforts to re-initialize the satellite tracking system. The technician had given Mentnor specific directions on how to proceed into the massive telecommunications hub beneath the War Room, and the man had drawn out his plan. It would take him approximately twenty minutes – it was a conservative estimate – to reach the juncture that housed the bugging equipment, and he could only guess that the satellite routing equipment was there, as well. After all, what sane person would want to crawling around amongst a network of fiber optic cabling? Then again, what sane person would want to bug the White House?

"Dr. Mentnor?"

"Hmm?"

"Dr. Mentnor, are you all right?"

He glanced up at the starkly attractive dark-haired young women. He mused that she didn't have a face that belonged to politics. Hers was the kind of beauty that lit up the silver screen or was splashed across the pages of glamour magazines. Still, a change in the political climate – especially since the events of 9/11 and the 'Age of Time Travel,' as some folks at the Journals of Science had called it – has brought thousands of new patriots into the arena of ideas. He imagined that Chloe had entered public service at that time. So many of the folks involved these days had. In fact, such a massive entrance was part of what fueled the man's desire to leave BackStep: there were just too many talking heads. He didn't want to be part of the new political landscape governing the world of applied science. That, and a few too many untimely deaths ...

"I'm sorry, Miss Vandemark," he said with genuine warmth, "but I would have to say that you caught me daydreaming."

She smiled. "Well, sir, I think we're all allowed a pleasant diversion after the events of today."

"Yes. I would agree."

"I was saying that Mr. Stoddard has arranged for your evacuation of the White House, along with the remainder of what he and the President have termed 'support staff.'"

"Yes," he stated. "I thought that's what you were saying."

"You're to leave with the first wave," she repeated. "You'll be vacating the premises thirty minutes from now." Pointing in the direction of the elevator, she added, "You may head upstairs any time you like. The House staff will see that you're attended to with any needs."

"Yes, thank you very much."

He glanced back momentarily at his laptop. She noticed that he was fixating on the image there, and she wondered what could be so distracting.

"Sir, is there something bothering you?"

Turning back to her, he asked, "Miss Vandemark, can you tell me if the President has authorized for a contingency staff to remain here in the War Room?" Quietly, he poked his hands into his pockets. "Of course, I understand that such information may be classified, and I wouldn't want you to breach any oath."

She wrinkled her forehead. "Dr. Mentnor, the chief ... well ... the President believes that the White House may very well be the target of this temporal weapon." Reaching out, she placed a comforting hand on the man's shoulder. "With all due respect, you don't want to be anywhere near here."

"I don't want to be here," he replied, "if you're talking about the War Room." Bobbing his head at the computer's flatscreen, he explained, "I'd rather go here."

Curious, she glared down at the screen. "There?"

"That's correct."

"What's down there?"

He smiled. "Science, mostly."

"Doctor, you're talking about a seventy-five yard climb down a maintenance shaft. Of all places in the White House, why would you possibly want to go down there?"

"No matter," he dismissed the subject, "but will there be a staff left behind?"

Equally dismissive, she stood upright. "Yes, sir, there will be a contingency staff. I would imagine that it will largely be comprised of volunteers, as this room will serve only as a communications relay for any future calls from Senator Pendley."

He nodded. "Thank you, Miss Vandemark." Politely, he asked, "I'm sorry, but did you say that you personally will be leading evacuation of the first wave?"

The young woman casually crossed her arms. "I will be." She cleared her throat. "Ethan has asked that I assume personal responsibility for the seeing first group fully evacuated and away from here. He's insisting on staying behind as part of the next group. He believes that the senator will call into this location before launching his next attack. As we're pretty much flying blind, so to speak, he believes that the senator may indeed release his hold for the purposes of showing the White House – firsthand – the destructive potential of his weapon."

"That's a wise conclusion by the chief." Mentnor shrugged as he continued, "Terrorists have traditionally sought to strike fear into the hearts of those they see as worthy of such punishment. If Senator Pendley believes that the sight of some new horror will be perhaps more persuasive, then I would think that he would want to show the President and his Cabinet what he's truly capable of doing ... despite the lunacy."

Nervously, she reached up and tugged at her shirt collar. "Sir, I really don't intend any disrespect to you or your colleagues, but I'm getting a really bad feeling about this. I honestly hope that you're not thinking about doing anything ... dangerous."

Mentnor reached down and switched off his laptop with a tap on the mousepad. "At my age, almost everything could be considered dangerous."

Leaning a bit closer, she whispered conspiratorially, "You know ... you and your friends with the BackStep Program have a bit of a reputation within these four walls. Of course, I'll deny I said anything, but it would appear that almost everyone associated with BackStep has a long history of behaving in a decidedly 'renegade' fashion." Winking at the man, she said, "I do seriously hope that you're not considering something that might be as foolhardy as Frank Parker would have done."

The scientist wasn't sure what to make of the comment. He paused and studied her expression. He thought there was an undercurrent of excitement to what she said, but didn't consider himself an expert on 'reading women.' Much to the contrary, Isaac Mentnor had populated his life with the pursuit of science ... mostly. He spent time dealing with theory, tinkering with a time sphere, and – in the end – fishing ... a sport requiring a healthy dose of science and luck. He remember, one time, telling Parker that that was the only things he hoped for in life: science and luck.

With an impish glint in his eye, Mentnor flatly stated, "Foolhardy? Perish the thought, Miss Vandemark."

END of Chapter 52


	53. Chapter 53

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 53

Five Days, Eleven Hours, Fifty-One Minutes

"It's good to see you again, Senator Pendley," Fred Gallick, head of security for Heston Tower, said as the older gentleman entered the lobby.

"Hello, Fred."

"How goes the business of governing today, sir?"

"About the same as usual, I'm afraid."

The younger man joined him in stride as they moved toward the elevator.

"Have there been any developments I should be made away of?" the senator asked.

"Nothing of any consequence, sir."

"Let's hope it remains that way."

Gallick stopped in front of the service elevator – the only one that descended to Pendley's subterranean lair – and he quickly pressed the button.

"Oh, Fred," the elder statesman announced matter-of-factly, "I must tell you that I've stepped up my operational timetable. Project Kupher went active earlier today, and I suspect it will remain active for ... oh, I don't know ... perhaps several days to come. You may notice a slight drain in available power for your facilities, but it shouldn't be so significant gain as to go noticed by anyone important."

"Very good."

"Yes, thank you," he agreed. "Should anyone come calling about Kupher, myself, or – specifically – the reduction of power, please do me a favor and let me know? I wouldn't want any unnecessary attention distracting you from the day-to-day details of your job."

"I'll be happy to let you know, sir."

"Thank you, again."

A bell chimed, and the doors parted. Pendley stepped into the warm elevator car. On the keypad, he tapped in his clearance code, and a panel light turned green.

"How is your work progressing, senator?"

"Oh, I've encountered the usual political snag," he snapped in obvious disappointment. "I'm hoping, however, that I can put it right shortly."

"Very good."

"Good afternoon, Fred."

* * *

When the doors opened, the senator marched into the waiting glare of Dr. Eli Watanabe. Nervously, the man wrung his hands before him, his spectacles drooped down to the end of his nose. Shaking his hands, he wiped his sweaty palms on the pockets of his lab coat.

"By the look on your face," Pendley began, "I can only imagine that you're here to deliver less than stellar news, Eli."

"Senator?"

"What is it, doctor?"

His finger trembling, the doctor raised his hand and shoved the bridge of his glasses back up his nose. "Sir ... there's been a ... modest development."

"Certainly, not so far as the power to the Crypt is concerned, I hope?"

Watanabe quickly cleared his throat so that the noise sounded much like a stifled laugh. "Erm ... no, sir. I wish it were ... only that simple."

"Then what is it?"

"Let's ... let's head toward your private office, and I think you'll understand shortly."

* * *

Arthur Pendley knew something had gone terribly awry when he rounded the corner and came face to face with an armed sentry. As soon as the guard recognized him, the soldier immediately lowered his weapon to his side, taking up a traditional military 'at attention' stance. The butt of his rifle rammed solidly against the floor. Past the sentry, the senator noticed a small gathering of other soldiers – security he had siphoned off various FEMA posts to service this facility – and, at the head of the small throng, he saw the grim expression of Commander Harold Stephens, the recognized head of the unit. Immediately, he called out for his troops to stand at attention, and they obeyed.

"Harold?"

"Welcome back to the Crypt, sir."

Glancing around at the stoic faces of the enlisted personnel, he asked, "I certainly hope this isn't some training event ... not at this stage of the game."

"No, sir." The man relaxed somewhat as he inclined his head in the direction of the senator's office. "I think you had better see this for yourself."

Together, they moved through the archway and into Pendley's office. As they walked into the room, the statesman was suddenly overwhelmed with the pungent odor in the air. He sensed an unusual warmth as he noticed the red lines scrawled unevenly across the floor in a jagged script, and, after a second glance, he realized it wasn't writing but was blood – human blood – and, with his eyes, he traced the stretch of crimson back to the base of his desk. There, two still pale legs stuck out from behind the wood. Bringing a hand up to his nose and mouth – an attempt to stifle the smell – he walked hesitantly around the edge, noticing that the legs ended in feet wearing distinctly familiar high-heeled shoes. He had seen Belinda wear those shoes many times before. Once – though he suddenly was flooded with regret over realizing he could only remember doing so one time – he had complimented her on her shoes. He told her that she always wore something that looked 'comfortable.' Was that so crass? Was that so impolite as to risk a sexual harassment complaint? In fact, his heart sank when he decided he could never recall saying anything of personal significance to this woman – this wonderful, committed, faithful woman – who had agreed to such a difficult assignment as working in the Crypt's administrative offices would require. He wasn't certain if he could look at her face – her pale, lifeless expression with that forever fixed expression of shock and bemusement – but he insisted he should do so. He owed her that much.

In her outstretched hand, she clutched the .357 Magnum Revolver that he kept in his desk. Her arm lay on the floor, the gun at the end, and he could tell – by the unusual contortion of her body – that she had used the gun to put a bullet through her brain ... his gun ... her brain ... his office ... her life.

"Oh, my dear Belinda," he muttered.

"We found her like this not long ago, sir," Stephens explained. "We were all down below. Once your command came in from the White House, we've stayed down there in the event of attack. After none came, I ordered one of our team to do a general security sweep of these offices. He found her like this, with this in her hand, and he reported it back to me immediately."

The soldier held up a crumbled piece of paper. Pendley took it, and he realized – right away – that she had found out what he was doing – what all of them were doing – the wrong way.

The page was titled 'Secondary Kupher Targets.' He had printed it himself – not several hours ago – after a telephone call from the Elders.

Clearly, Belinda had read the list. Easily, she concluded that Kupher – the project she had sworn off normal civilization to serve her country, serve her government, serve Pendley – was wrong. Illegal. Deadly. Unable to reconcile the anger and fear and frustration that went with realizing she had unwittingly betrayed her country, she must have charged his office, she must have searched his belongings, she must have found further evidence, and she must have given up all hope for an amicable survival. He imagined that she cursed herself, cursed her life, and cursed him, as well. When she found the gun, there was only one real solution. She could've waited to use it on him, but that wouldn't have been in her nature. She had trusted in him. She had given her life to what she believed was a cause of worth and, quite possibly, the closest sense of nobility her country offered. He had disappointed her. He had tricked her. He had stripped her of any possible respect for human life – her own included – and she did what she felt was the logical, necessary step: she put the gun to her head, and she fired. She blew a whole through her forehead and out the back, spilling her blood, bone, and brain all over his office, leaving him one final message, one final reminder that only death could come from what he was doing, what he was attempting.

"My sweet Belinda," he said.

"Sir?"

Refusing to surrender to emotions, he fought back his tears. "Commander, please clear this room with the exception of yourself and the doctor."

"Yes, sir."

He stared down at her frozen body. He imagined what she must've felt in those few final seconds of life, her eyes closed and the desire to live slipping away. Did she blame him? She must have. Did she curse him? She had every right. Did she haunt him? Would she?

He closed his eyes.

After a moment, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes, turning to face Dr. Watanabe and Commander Stephens.

"Gentlemen," he said gently, "Kupher is green for our secondary target, and I'm looking for suggestions. We will strike ... we must strike ... very soon."

"But ... shouldn't we delay until we can have Belinda's body properly cared for?" Watanabe asked weakly.

"Stephens will handle that issue, Eli," the senator concluded authoritatively. "He and his men will see to the body's disposal after we've concluded this meeting."

"But ... shouldn't we contact her family ... or the authorities?"

"From this point forward," Pendley concluded with considerable menace, "mine is the only authority you should concern yourself with, doctor."

END of Chapter 53


	54. Chapter 54

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 54

Five Days, Eleven Hours, Fifty-One Minutes

Tucking his head back into the helmet, Frank Parker sighed heavily. Despite the danger he posed to his fellow man, he had grown re-accustomed to his brief respite at the Pentagon, being able to live and breathe without the constraints of the CDC confinement suit. Once he locked the helmet in place, he felt the tension build up in his neck, his muscles protesting a return to the protective gear.

"Like that's going to do any good," he mumbled.

"What did you say, Frank?"

"Nothing, Larry."

"I thought you spoke."

"Let it go, Larry."

"All right, Frank."

He stood up, the full weight of the suit bearing down on him. Activating his air supply – thankfully the Pentagon had the equipment necessary to recharge his mobile tanks – he turned toward the massive steel door.

"Let's get you back home, son," he said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Forget it."

The door shook visibly, and then it tracked aside automatically as the hydraulics engaged. In the open doorway, Security Chief Bruce Hammett stood waiting for the chrononaut.

"That's much safer for the both of us, Mr. Parker," he chimed, stepping back and allowing the man and the alien to enter.

"Where's Nina?" he demanded.

Hammett quickly held up a single hand. "She's safe. We have a staff physician who's checking her out right now."

"I hope you don't mind telling me what the hell happened to her?" As Parker crossed the room, he studied the faces of the men waiting for him. He recognized Colonel McGinty from the airport; he was the man the White House had dispatched to meet the entire BackStep team, to provide them with an operational briefing, to direct them to their next assignments. "Colonel," he added, "it's good to see a familiar face again. Maybe these Pentagon pencil-pushers will take your word that I pose no threat to them now that I'm back under plastic."

The Mallathorn hovered through the open door, and the being took its place at Parker's side.

"Hello, Frank," McGinty replied. "I've explained to them in detail that Dr. Welles borrowed your suit in order to protect herself from any exposure. Yes, now that you're back in the gear, it's true that you pose no significant threat."

"Then where they hell are Ebdon and Nina?"

Again, Hammett stepped forward. "Mr. Parker," he tried evenly, "I understand what you might be feeling right now, but every step I've taken has been a reasonable precaution to avoiding contaminating any further personnel. My men in there – they've cleaned up the mess that you and the Mallathorn made – and we've taken the prisoners to our holding area ..."

Interrupted, Parker insisted, "I had nothing to do with 'making that mess,' thank you very much."

"Frank is correct, Bruce," the alien sided with the chrononaut. "He was unaware of what I was attempting."

"He was in there with you," Hammett argued. "That's all I know." Waving a hand in the direction of the Catacombs, he stated, "You've completely trashed two entire sections of documents that, in most cases, are considered national monuments! They're more than one hundred years old! Were they destroyed, we would have no way to recover the substance of what they contained! If you think I'm overreacting, then you might want to ask the President yourself what loss that would be to this nation's greatest collection of literary artifacts!"

"Say what you want, chief," Parker said as he reached for the nearest rolling desk chair, pulled it closer, and dropped into it. "Strapping on a gun doesn't make you a cop if you spend your day guarding books. So far as I'm concerned, you're a lethal librarian." He stretched out and took the Mallathorn in his hands, picked the creature up, and plopped it down on his knee. "Here, son. Come sit on daddy's lap."

"I beg your pardon?"

"That's getting old, Larry."

"Yes, Frank."

Before Hammett could muster a response, he felt the firm hand of Colonel McGinty's on his shoulder.

"Mr. Parker," he began, clearly hoping to start the conversation over again, "I've taken every step only to ward off any further risk of injury. I apologize if I've upset you." The colonel's hand disappeared. "As I was trying to explain, I stepped into the room once we noticed that Dr. Welles and Mr. Finkle were approaching. I aimed my pistol at them ... as a precaution. That was when the doctor collapsed. She fainted, so far as I know. Then, Special Agent Thomkins entered the room and carried her out here. Mr. Finkle told us that you'd be coming. He told us that you'd need the suit. Agent Thomkins took it off the doctor, and he's with her ... right now ... in our infirmary."

"She collapsed?"

The chief nodded. "That's correct." He poked his thumb in the direction of the colonel. "McGinty believes that, after a cursory inspection of your suit, the rebreather was not functioning properly."

Parker refused to believe what he was hearing, but then he remembered what had happened in the elevator. Nina had insisted on using the suit's power supply to initialize the car's door, granting them an escape. He warned her again taking the dangerous gamble, but she knew the suit better than anyone. He thought – he hoped that she knew what she was doing. Perhaps she had. Perhaps the suit had simple short-circuited out of spite or out of the string of unlucky incidents that seemed to follow him everywhere he went on this God-forsaken BackStep.

"Dammit," he swore.

"As I said," Hammett continued, "our physician is giving her a full examination. If she is contaminated, we'll have to see whether or not the White House will authorize an immediate vaccination of Chroniticin."

"What do you mean?" Parker asked. "Why wouldn't the White House save her?"

"Frank," the colonel offered, "you have to understand that the drug ... it's in very short supply."

"I don't care if it's the last vial you have available, colonel," the man stated emphatically. "If Nina's been infected, then you treat her."

"Or?"

"Or you just lost yourself a chrononaut," he replied, calling what he figured was the officer's bluff. "Have a chat with my little snake-headed friend here, and see how my dropping out of this mission squares with what he's told me." He locked eyes with the man. "I'm not asking you to save her life, sir. I'm telling you."

"Frank, it's not that simple."

"You make it that simple," Parker challenged, "or I quit."

The colonel grew silent. He stared back at the man. After a pause, he agreed with a nodded.

"All right, Frank. I give you my word that she'll receive the antidote."

"Once I see it," Parker said, "then I'll leave here. Not before."

Slowly, the colonel nodded. Reaching up, he unhooked the strap on his protective vest, tugged down his tie, and yanked his shirt collar open.

"Let's get to the infirmary," he said.

END of Chapter 54


	55. Chapter 55

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 55

Five Days, Eleven Hours, Forty Minutes

"Dr. Mentnor," Chloe Vandemark said flatly, "somehow I just knew that I'd find you here."

Mentnor stopped in mid-climb down the service ladder. He glanced back up in the direction of the voice, and he immediately recognized the face of the Chief of Staff's aide. Silently cursing himself, he swore he had closed the door tightly behind him so as to avoid being caught. Given the fact that she had spoken with him not thirty minutes ago, he guessed she was keeping a watchful eye on him at Stoddard's request.

"Yes," he said, smiling up at her. "Hello, Ms. Vandemark."

She smiled down, the corner of her mouth tugging away to show her pearly white teeth. "Doctor, if you're going to condescend by insisting on using my surname, do me a favor? Please drop the 'Ms' nonsense. It's 'miss.' I never much cared for that 'Ms' qualifier. I'm happily single."

"You'll have to forgive this old dog."

"And a wiley old dog, at that," she commented. Placing one hand on the top rung, she asked, "You wouldn't mind telling me what you're up to?"

He grimaced, glancing down the long shaft before explaining, "I would think that it would be obvious to you ... Chloe, is it?"

"Yes, it is," she answered, "and, yes, it's also very obvious."

"I apologize."

"No need." She took her hand off the rung and crossed her arms over her chest. "However, you have to understand that I'm only doing my job when I remind you that Chief Stoddard did give you an order to evacuate the White House. Would you like me to inform him that you've brazenly disobeyed his order with the intention of climbing down this maintenance corridor, risking life and limb, in a pursuit of only Heaven knows what?"

He gripped tighter, holding his position on the ladder, hoping that he was showing no disrespect but an unflinching desire to continue. "Chloe, I have to do this."

"You have to do what, sir? Disobey the chief, or risk life and limb?"

"You're exaggerating."

"I don't think I am," she countered. "If we were to consult with the White House's staff physician, I'm quite certain that she would confirm that a man your age should not be spending his spare time crawling 75 yards beneath the surface of the White House in an un-monitored ladder shaft."

He thought about protesting vehemently, but, considering his position, he softened his blow. "I'm in reasonably good shape for a man my age, thank you, Chloe ... and this isn't about age. This is about survival. I'm not talking about my own survival. I'm talking about the survival of mankind ... of life, as we know it." With a fixed stare, he added, "I'm afraid you'll not talk me about of this, not matter how persistent you prove to be."

Her eyes locked on him, she released a heavy breath of air through her nostrils. Pursing her lips for several long moments, she finally nodded.

"Very good," she announced. "Then ... I'll have to ask you to be a gentleman, to refrain from looking up my skirt, and to move down."

"I beg your pardon?"

As he studied her, he felt some confusion as she uncrossed her arms, crouched on the floor, and slid one leg over the edge.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm coming with you."

"That won't be necessary," he tried to argue.

"Look down," she ordered.

"What?"

Her sour expression poked over the edge and down at him. "I asked you to be a gentleman, doctor. Now, please look down or you're about to find yourself looking at something that will – without the counsel of the White House physician – undoubtedly prove to be too much for you."

* * *

"There."

Dr. Eli Watanabe had been waiting for some time to use his Superweapon – the Temporal Ray – one more time. His adrenaline pumping heavily since the first blast, he had toyed with the notion of what could be destroyed next. Unconcerned with being branded a traitor against his country, he focused on what he trusted was the pursuit of the last pure science. The control of a temporal ray – the ultimate application of temporal science – was the zenith of his career. It paled to nothing. As he imagined, these efforts were unprecedented. They were perfection, regardless of what goal, what country, what ideology they served. He wouldn't allow himself the momentary distractions of mercy, the platitudes of diplomacy. He would continue tested and retesting, calibrating and recalibrating, this very device ... until it served his own goal. He learned long ago – he accepted the notion when he was still a young man with an undoubtedly illustrious career ahead of him – that only brute strength would allow science to triumph over human reason. He knew that what Pendley wanted surpassed any plea for patience, calm, or reservation. This was to be his greatest endeavor, his lasting contribution to the field of what he believed was 'the final frontier.'

Now, they were going to strike again, and he was convinced he would be helping to bring the United States – the world's last superpower – to its knees ... but he knew there were any number of uncounted ways to temper this beast. Would they strike at the heart of the nation, destroying the White House, the Congress, or the Pentagon? That would certainly bring the world back on its heels, and he could only imagine what the talking heads on CVN would be saying, could be saying, should be saying. Would they destroy, say, another country's landmark? The Great Wall – that massive structure visible from high Earth orbit – would be a perfect target for destruction, though it would take more than a single blast from their Temporal Converter. The Eiffel Tower – tall crisscrossing metal girders – would be gone in the blink of an eye. Buckingham Palace? The Great Pyramids? The United Nations Building?

"There," Pendley repeated, poking a finger at the slip of paper he had placed in front of the scientist.

Quickly, Watanabe pulled up his targeting screen on the left side of the Crypt's command chair, punching in the precise coordinates, and ...

He stared at the senator's intended target.

"There?" he asked, sounding incredulous.

"Yes," the man agreed.

Wiping his eyes, Watanabe glanced again at the monitor.

"But ... what's the possible significance of destroying ...?"

"That isn't your concern."

"Senator, I really think that a burst at a government building – perhaps even Langley – would be of greater use than ..."

"I'm not paying you for your advice, Eli," the elder statesman said flatly. "I'm paying you to do as I order. Were I you, I'd keep that in mind before offering your opinion."

"Senator, really ..."

"You'll know soon enough."

"Senator ..."

"Target the Converter," Pendley stated, ignoring the protest. "Hold the blast until I give you the word."

* * *

"Mr. President," Stoddard tried, trying to remove any hint of frustration from his voice, "I can certainly understand your desire to evacuate any city that you believe poses a target of interest for Senator Pendley ... I'm only trying to play the devil's advocate when I point out that we're about to unleash a level of civil unrest unlike like any in living history. I'm not second guessing anyone. I'm only asking that, when we issue this national alert, that we're as specific as possible as to the reasons behind it."

On the viewscreen, the President shook his head. "No, Ethan. We're in no position to release any more information to the general public. This attack on our freedom is precisely the kind of event that'll generate a possible military response, if needed, from our allies. Consequently, we don't want to share more than what I've outlined until we know for certain whether or not this time weapon Pendley has built is on our soil. Then, if need be, we can call in whatever favors are owed, and our allies can join us on our own soil ..."

The door to the conference room swung open, and one of the War Room aides stormed through, interrupted the conversation.

"Mr. Stoddard," he announced, "you have a call on the Red Phone, sir. It's Senator Pendley."

Turning, the chief held up his hand to silence the President.

"Where is Chloe?" he asked.

Quickly, the aide shrugged his shoulders. "Sir, the last I knew, I believe she was coordinating the first leg of the evacuation. I haven't her since she informed us that we'd be following the first helicopter out in about sixty minutes."

He nodded. "The first copter is away, then?"

"I don't know, sir," the man explained. "Let me check above-ground, sir, and I'll let you know."

"Thank you."

As abruptly as he appeared, the man left the room.

"You don't suppose he's calling to gloat?" the President asked.

Stoddard shook his head. "That isn't Pendley's style. He's had more than equal time to rub his superiority in our faces, and he's shown remarkable restraint. At this point, I would imagine he's checking to see if you're reconsidered."

"Put him on."

Reaching out to the communications relay, the chief tapped the 'live' button. The line clicked on the ceiling speaker, and he said, "I'm here, senator."

"Is the President with you?"

"He is."

"Very well," the man announced over the open line. "If you would be so kind, Mr. Stoddard, I would ask you to contact the Basilisk via a secure White House communications line."

"The Basilisk?" the President asked.

"Yes, Mr. President," Pendley replied. "I would like you to hear what her commanding officer has to report in the moments ahead."

"Arthur, how do you know about the Basilisk?"

Stoddard closed his eyes in disgust as he heard the creeping laughter whisper from the speaker over his head. "Mr. President, if my memory serves me," the chief offered, "I believe it was the senator who actually provided the name for the Basilisk. It was, after all, one of the principle projects of the Senate Intelligence Committee. If I recall, senator, you initially opposed development of the submarine, didn't you?"

"I did, Ethan," the statesman answered. "You have a very good memory, as usual."

"Arthur," the President interrupted, "what is this about?"

"Mr. President, I think her captain will be able to provide you a far more definitive answer once the events unfold."

Suddenly, Stoddard raised his hand to his flushed cheeks. "Senator ... you can't."

"I haven't a choice in the matter," he replied. "In fact, your refusal to meet my demands will cause this."

The chief sank into the nearest chair. "Senator ... with all due respect to you ... you can't do this."

"Ethan, what is it?"

He leaned forward, firmly pressing his elbow onto the table. The room had grown very warm, and he suppressed a desire to lower the air conditioning for a momentary reprieve. "Mr. President ... as you know, we've developed an entirely new class of stealth nuclear submarines ... the Chimera Class ... and the Basilisk is the operational prototype. Last month, it was dispatched to begin maneuvers ... war games, mostly, to better evaluate the operational readiness of its class and crew. It's currently on a training patrol ... and I believe that Senator Pendley intends to destroy it."

"Where is it?"

"Sir ..."

"Where is it, Ethan?"

Stoddard tapped a button on the comm relay. An aide responded, and he ordered the man to raise the Basilisk on sat phone.

"It's in the Persian Gulf, sir."

* * *

Finally, Mentnor stepped down, planting his feet on the solid steel platform and letting go of the ladder. Turning, he looked past the endless series of fiber optic cables, noticed the nearby control junction, and wiped the sweat from his wrinkled brow. The climb took more out of him than he had expected. Leaning back into the wall, he took a deep breath, feeling the pound, pound, pound of his stressed heart in his chest, neck, and ears. Tugging at his sleeves, he quickly removed the White House sweater one of the War Room aides had provided him, and he rolled up the cuffs, pushing the fabric past his elbows. Concentrating, he slowed his breathing down to a weak pant.

"Doctor, are you all right?"

Chloe stepped away from the ladder, quickly moving to where he rest. She placed two fingers on his neck, checking his pulse.

"Take it easy for a few seconds," she warned him. "Sir, I told you not to do this! Your heart ... it's racing."

"I'll be all right in a moment," he replied.

"You shouldn't even be down here."

"I know ... I know."

Dismayed somewhat, she clapped her hands together, rubbing a fine layer of grit she had picked up from the rungs more deeply into the skin. Trying to brush it off herself, she added, "I told you, sir, and now ... here we are."

"I know you did, Chloe."

"We'll rest long enough for you to catch your breath," she argued, "and, then, we're starting back up."

With a smirk, the doctor tried, "Come now ... I've climbed this far down that I may as well have a look around. I would guess that this spot ... this location ... isn't on any of the official White House tours ... so let an old man have a bit of fun, eh?"

"Doctor," she said, sounding as if his title were akin to swearing.

Righting himself from the wall, Mentnor paced over to the comm panel. He found the snap-catch on the right side. Flipping it, he opened the unit and examined the switches underneath.

"This is quite the technology," he marveled.

"And, yes, you're right," she agreed, "it isn't part of the official tour."

He chuckled softly. Pointing down a side corridor, he said, "I'd like to go this way."

* * *

"Senator, you can't do this!" Stoddard argued. "What you're contemplating ... it would be disastrous ... a monumental setback to any effort this administration or any administration has made for a lasting peace in the Middle East!"

"The President's refusal to meet a few simple requests compels me to believe that I can do this, Ethan," Pendley offered, "and I must."

"Arthur," President Campbell tried, "you're a United States senator. You – of all people – should know what repercussions a terrorist attack will have against your own country in the Persian Gulf. You know that you'll be inciting a whole new wave of terror on behalf of any extremist group that operates out of that corner of the world. They'll see pictures ... they'll see photographs ... of the destruction of the Basilisk in their local press, on their local televisions ... and they'll see it as the ultimate sign of vulnerability. You can't do this, Arthur! You simply can't!"

"I don't have much of a choice, Mr. President."

"Arthur, be reasonable."

"I have been reasonable, sir," the senator countered. "I would state that I firmly believe that it is you who is behaving unreasonably with your resolve." He paused, anticipating a reply. When none came, he lashed out with, "If only you had been willing to meet my demands, we wouldn't be where we are now ... yelling at one another ... debating the merits or the faults of your failed diplomacy!"

"This has nothing to do with diplomacy," Campbell shot, "but it has everything to do with your own personal desire to – can I say it – rule the world!"

"I cling to no such desire, sir," he argued. "Rather, it is you who refuses to heed my request."

The comm relay pinged before Stoddard.

"Mr. President," he announced, "I have the Basilisk on sat phone."

"Arthur ... don't do this."

"You shouldn't keep her captain waiting, Mr. President."

* * *

Tugging on a handful of cables, Mentnor revealed the fist-sized oval – its face was a mix of blinking lights – and he said, "I believe this is what we're looking for, Chloe."

The device banged heavily against the metal girder he had lowered in order to gain access to the wiring. Reaching down, he cupped the device in his palm, and he brought it up – still attached – to his eyes in order to examine it more closely. He saw that the device separated down the middle, and he could vaguely make out in the poor light the oval's teeth that latched its jaws around the thick line of cable. He guessed that – somewhere beneath its top half – there was a small mountain of circuits that fused into the communications wiring, diverting its control, and re-directed the functions for whoever controlled it. There, on the bottom half of the device, was obviously a release catch.

"I think this, however, is an even more important find."

"Doctor?"

"Yes?"

Stopped, he turned to her ... only to find the muzzle of a small firearm pointed at his head.

"If you would be so kind, doctor, please step away from there."

* * *

Craig Donovan couldn't believe it.

"A temporal weapon?" he asked. He tried to imagine anyone – any American – wanted to usurp the technology that gave Channing Michelson or Frank Parker the ability to travel through time for the good of the entire planet. In fact, he always find it ironic that one of the driving core principles of any BackStep Program was that evil was an absolute. Certainly, as his training had taught him, people did evil things, but he always refuted the existence of pure evil ... but how could he believe otherwise when such obvious evidence stared him in the face so routinely? It was one of the reasons he eventually left the program – that, and Talmadge's unfortunate unwillingness to have Donovan actually travel through time. "How is that even possible? Who would ... Bradley, who would do such a thing?"

In thought, the director lowered his gaze. "Craig, I realized – several years back – that trying to answer that question was nothing but a waste of time. I remember ... I remember telling you so much not long before you left, and I think ... well, I've told myself that the reality was one of the reasons why you left."

"It was."

"And, as a chrononaut, that would always hold you back."

"Bradley, I would've done my job."

"Doing your job was never a concern, Craig," the director tried, lifting his head and staring the younger man in the eyes. "You were one of the greatest assets to the Program. However, I couldn't gamble the fate of humanity on someone who refused to believe that true evil – true, purposeful, unadulterated evil – was part of each and every mission you'd encounter." Waving a single finger at him, Talmadge added, "It had nothing to do with you, Craig. It was me. I couldn't convince myself that it was a risk I was willing to take." He shrugged. "Eventually, I think – had I chose different, had I put you in the capsule – we would've agreed. You would've seen the world the way I have to see it on each occasion that I take an order from Washington to organize a BackStep. There's a part of me that knows we would've agreed ... but I wouldn't have cared for the man I would've turned you into."

Donovan stood there as understanding came to him in the same way the sun rose every morning – slowly, surely, without hesitation.

"So," he tried, "you didn't grant me a chance for the capsule because of me ... but because of yourself?"

"That's right, Craig," the director said, "and I'm asking for your forgiveness. It was the wrong decision. It was the absolute worst decision I've made in my entire career. I only want you to understand that – after all this time – it had nothing to do with you." He bit his lower lip before he added, "I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me."

Gently, Donovan reached out and placed his hand on his old superior's shoulder. "Bradley ... of course, I forgive you. How can I not forgive you? You've been like ... well, you've been a caretaker to all of us ... Ramsey included, though I'm sure he won't admit it with that stubbornness of his ... and we all owe you a debt of thanks for recruiting us to BackStep ... that's a debt none of us can ever repay."

Talmadge placed his hand on Donovan's elbow. "No thanks needed, Craig ... but I want you back on the project once this is all over with."

Simply, he replied, "I'm there."

"Thank you."

Turning, Donovan stepped out into the corridor. He knew he had to get out of here. He knew he had to get Indiri Farris away from here. He knew that – out there – there was a terrorist – the same kind of pure unadulterated evil Bradley had just told him about. Donovan knew he had to capture the man. It was no longer 'the right thing to do.' It had to be done.

Reaching to his belt, he tugged out his Blackberry and scrolled down to Chloe Vandemark's number. If he was going to defeat Richard DeMarco, he'd want to be on the fast track to whatever the White House had found out about the villain, and he tapped the 'send' button ...

* * *

To her surprise, Chloe took her eyes off the doctor when she heard her cell phone ringing.

"What the ...?"

Before she knew it, the old man was on her, his heavy hand wrapped firmly about her wrist, forcing her gun arm down, and she felt his other arm on her chin.

All she could do was pull the trigger ...

END of Chapter 55


	56. Chapter 56

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 56

Five Days, Eleven Hours, Twenty-Three Minutes

At the sound of his voice, Dr. Nina Welles slowly opened her eyes. She had grown very tired in the past ten minutes, and she guessed that her body was succumbing to the effects of temporal contamination. Of course, she had seen its effects on countless others before her, but, for the first time, she was feeling what those ravaged few felt. The fatigue, the heat, the cold, and the pain. She wasn't quite certain of whether or not Frank Parker's voice. She wondered if it could've been a sickness-induced side effect, but, then, she heard it again.

"Stay with us, Nina."

Her vision adjusting to the light, she blinked several times. She saw an orange blob in her field of vision. Closing her eyes hard, she rolled her eyeballs around – left, right, up, down – and then opened them again. There, leaning over her, was the chrononaut.

"Hello, Frank," she mumbled weakly.

"Right back at you, doctor."

She cleared her throat, and, to her surprise, she realized she was smiling. "Isn't this a bit ironic?" she asked. "Normally, I'm the one up there, and others are down here."

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm not the first person to say that life is full of little ironies, am I?"

"No," she tried. "You're not wrong."

"You relax, doctor," he instructed her.

"Where am I?"

"Don't tell me that your memory is going, too?"

She laughed, but the minor convulsions of happiness hurt too much.

"We're still at the Pentagon," he said. "You fainted in the Catacombs, and, lucky for you, the chief of security here didn't take that as an offensive posture."

"Was that the guy with the gun?"

"Yes," he told her. "He was one of the good guys."

"Oh, thank goodness."

"He told you to stop, and I think you took him a bit too literally." An orderly brushed past him, marching to the nearest cabinet to retrieve an empty, sterilized syringe. "Now, the doctor here is going to administer a shot of Chroniticin. You're going to feel better in no time."

Confused, she shook her head. Then, she realized that he must've learned about the suit.

"Why didn't you tell me the truth?" he asked.

"About what?" she tried.

"About what happened to the suit when we were in the elevator? About short-circuiting the rebreather?"

Her vision fluttered again, growing less visible, and she closed her eyes once more, settling on leaving them that way until she knew she was on the road to recovery.

"I'm sorry, Frank."

"I didn't ask you for an apology, Nina. I asked for the reason why didn't you tell me the truth?"

"I didn't want you to worry about me," she explained softly. "I don't like it ... when anyone worries about me. Call it ... a fault, if you must ... but it's who I am."

"Here's a little news flash, in case it escaped you, doctor: I've been worrying about every one of us since I landed in this parallel timeline. If you haven't heard, it's what I do. It's my job."

"No," she replied weakly. "That isn't your job, Frank."

"Then what is it my job to do?"

"Saving the world," she told him. "That's your job."

"Last time I looked, you were one part of this world, Nina."

"Yes, one part," she offered convincingly, "a very small part."

"Nina," he leaned closer and whispered in her ear, "there is no person I've ever crossed paths with whom I've ever considered small or insignificant. BackStepping doesn't work that way. We're all important ... each and every one of us ... and, in case we don't cross paths any more in this timeline, I want you to accept that truth for what it is."

She thought about debating the merits of the perspective with him, but, given her condition, she decided she had better refrain.

"I'm sorry, Frank."

"Stop apologizing, doctor."

"I'm ... well ... forget it, then."

"That's better."

He stood beside her bed, and he placed one gloved hand over hers. She gripped his fingers with as much strength as she could muster.

"I certainly hope you and I cross paths in my own world," he told her finally, and then he left her to sleep. "You're a very strong woman, and I'd love to work with you again."

Smiling, Ebdon Finkle sat in a nearby chair. He watched the scene with some unusual measure of delight.

"What's the smirk on your face, Ebdon?"

He held his arms wide. "Can't a man smile?"

"Only when it doesn't mean what I think it means."

"Take it however you like."

Pointing, Parker ordered, "You stay here and take good care of her, do you hear me, recruit?"

"Are you sure that you don't want me to come with you?"

"No." The entire mission was a greater risk that Parker, Talmadge, or anyone had possibly imagined it would be. When Finkle had been ordered up as part of the team, Parker hadn't known what he knew now. The circumstances had changed – dramatically – and he wouldn't put any more people at risk ... not knowing what he knew. "Taking care of her is your new mission, Ebdon. You're more than capable ... and I wouldn't trust it to any other man I've met 'round here."

Reaching out from the chair, Finkle grasped the man's extended hand and shook it warmly.

"I hear you, Frank ... and good luck."

"Thanks."

Behind Parker, the Mallathorn waited. It floated in air – did the thing never grow weary of that stance? – and the chrononaut motioned for the being to lower to the floor. It followed his request.

"You're coming with me," the man said.

"Where are we going, Frank?"

"We're going to have more than a few kind words with the man sent to kill us."

END of Chapter 56


	57. Chapter 57

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 57

Five Days, Eleven Hours, Twenty Minutes

Donovan couldn't be certain, but he thought the loud crack that sounded through his cell phone was a gunshot. His heart skipped a beat as he pressed the receiver closer to his ear, and he asked, "Chloe?"

He didn't hear an immediate response. He listened closely. Was that two people ... struggling?

"Chloe?" he repeated. "Chloe ... are you there?"

There was a rustling of clothing on clothing, of skin slapping on skin, and then he heard a loud 'crack' as he guessed his friend had dropped the phone. It rattled loud in his ears for a moment, and, then, after a pause, he heard a familiar voice says, "Hello?"

"Who is this?"

"This is Dr. Isaac Mentnor."

"Isaac?"

"Is this ... Craig, is that you?"

"Isaac!" Donovan cried. "What the hell happened? Where's Chloe?"

The older man cleared his throat. "I'm afraid that she's dead."

"What? What happened?"

"Craig, she wasn't who you thought she was."

"Isaac," he began, "what are you talking about? Where are you?"

"I'm at the White House," he answered. "We've been on a blackout, given the present circumstances for which I'm certain Bradley has made you aware. Not too long ago, I located the source of the communications jamming to the War Room. Chloe agreed to come with me into the service bay under the capital. I thought it was to provide assistance, but, as it would seem, Miss Vandemark was the source of the sabotage."

"Chloe?" Donovan asked. "Isaac ... you've got to be kidding! I've known her since I relocated to Washington. Are you saying that she's a traitor?"

"I'm only telling you what I know for certain, Craig," the scientist confirmed. "I'm telling you that she accompanied me beneath the White House. I thought she wanted to help me, but now it seems that her intention was to stop me from removing this device that's impeding the President's ability to use our satellite defense systems. Apparently, Chloe was working in collaboration with Senator Pendley."

"Isaac, you've got to get out of there."

"I will," he agreed, "once I remove this jamming device."

"I'll call the White House," the younger man insisted, "and I'll have them send a back-up team to where you are."

"No need, Craig," Mentnor said. "I believe ... I believe I have it."

* * *

"Captain Brooke, this is the White House."

"Hello, sir. It's good to hear from our commander-in-chief. We haven't heard a word since all government functions went dark yesterday."

"Captain," Stoddard tried, pulling his face out of his hands, "I'm afraid I'm going to have to dispense with the pleasantries for the time being. Can I ask what your situation is?"

"Sir?"

"Captain, what's the condition of your vessel? Have you been attacked? Is everything under your control?"

The woman cleared her throat. "Yes, sir. So far as I can tell you, we're smooth sailing in the Gulf."

The chief nodded. "Very good. Stay on the horn, captain. Whatever you do, keep this line open."

"Of course, sir."

* * *

Pendley reached out and tapped Watanabe on the shoulder.

"Fire," he ordered.

* * *

"Mr. President, I've raised Captain Brooke on the sat phone."

"Captain," Campbell said, "it's good to hear your voice."

"Thank you, sir."

"How's your boat, captain?"

"She's sailing smart, Mr. President."

The War Room aide reached up and wiped his eyes. He thought the light on his satellite console had suddenly changed from 'red' to 'green,' and, with a fingertip, he tapped the bulb lightly once, twice, three times.

When it didn't change color, he shot up from his chair and raced toward the conference room.

* * *

"Sir," Stephens announced quickly as he strode toward the Crypt's command chair. "We're getting indications that the satellite jamming system has been disabled."

Pendley turned to face the man. Reaching out with both hands, he took hold of him by the shirt front, forcing their two faces closer together.

"What the hell did you say?"

* * *

"SIR, THE SATELLITE TRACKING SYSTEM JUST CAME BACK ONLINE!"

Stoddard couldn't believe his ears ... or his plain dumb luck.

He reached out for the comm relay, and he hung up on Pendley.

"Who did we lose?" President Campbell asked. "Who did we just lose?"

"Pendley," the chief explained. "And we didn't lose him. I hung up."

"You did what?"

"Sir, I don't know how or why it's happened," Stoddard began, "but our satellites went green." Tapping another button on the console, he reactivated the sat comm link to the Basilisk. "Captain, are you still holding?"

"I'm here, sir."

"Thank you," the chief replied. "Please stand by."

He placed the call back on hold. Turning, he ordered the aide, "Tell those helicopters upstairs to remain parked on the White House lawn. Tell everyone to hold the order to evacuate. Now that we have some eyes in the sky we aren't running anywhere. Also, get someone to re-task one of our surveillance satellites over the Persian Gulf. Any sat will do. Get something in the area now."

"Sir, we've had continuous surveillance available to us since the first Gulf War."

"Then get that feed on the viewer in here five minutes ago."

"Chief Stoddard," he heard from captain. "I'm getting word that something is happening."

As the aide rushed out of the conference room, the man quickly tapped the release on the communications line.

"Say again, captain?"

"We're experiencing some kind of environmental storm, chief," Brooke said matter-of-factly. "I'm being told that ... as odd as this may sound ... we may've crossed into some kind of storm at sea."

"GET THEM OUT OF THERE, ETHAN!" the President ordered.

"Olivia," the chief tried, dropping into his chair, pressing his face close to the comm relay's mouthpiece, "I want you to listen to me."

"Can I ask you to hold, chief?" she asked. "The deck officer is reporting that we're entering a huge displacement of water, and this data isn't making any sense. I'd like to make heads-or-tails of it on my own, if you don't mind."

"Olivia!" he shouted into the microphone. "I want you to ignore everything you're hearing from the officers on your bridge, and I want you to focus only on what I'm telling you to do. I want you to take the Basilisk into a dive, as deep a dive as you can muster on the flip of a dime, captain, do you hear me? Get that ship down, as low as you can go, now!"

He heard the woman bark the order, but, then, to his shock, he heard an ear-shattering whine break over the open communications line. In pain, he slapped his hands around his ears and dropped back in the chair. Reacting as quick as he could, he deactivated the relay, and he sat in silence until the President asked, "What happened, Ethan?"

The chief sniffed as he relaxed in the chair.

"We've lost contact with the Basilisk, sir."

END of Chapter 57


	58. Chapter 58

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 58

Five Days, Eleven Hours, Five Minutes

Carefully, Parker leaned closer to the Mallathorn. "Are you sure you can do this?"

The alien nodded once, its tentacles dancing like a bunch of loose curly hair. "I believe I can, Frank."

"I don't want to hear say that you believe you can, Larry," the man told the thing from another star. "I need sure. I need to have some assurance – your assurance – that you can do this if this strategy is going to work."

Sounding confident, the being replied, "I give you my word."

"Your word?"

"Yes."

"All right," the man said, rising. "If that's the best you've got, then I'll take it."

"Thank you for your trust, Frank."

"Don't mention it, Larry."

The chrononaut waved at the nearby military aide.

"Open the door," he ordered.

Surprised, Bruce Hammett whirled around as he watched Frank Parker and the Mallathorn enter the Pentagon holding cell.

"Just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"We'd like to have a word with the colonel, if you don't mind."

Sitting in a chair behind a simple black table, Colonel Chamberlin sat watching the scene unfold. He had a single bruise on his left cheek under his eye, probably from a blow he had taken when Hammett's men overcame him and his aide in the Catacombs ... or maybe it was from one of the thousands of books Larnord had thrown in a telekinetic whirlwind at the assailant. In either case, it was an even mix of blue and red. The man kept his palms flat, pressed to the tabletop, as he studied the chrononaut and his companion.

"Absolutely not," Hammett replied. "This man is in federal custody, Parker, and I'm not about to turn the interrogation over to the two of you."

Jerking a thumb back in the direction he had come, Parker taunted, "Look, Hammett, I can get McGinty to override your resistance, if that's the way you'd rather have this play out."

"Play out?" the man tried. "Parker ... this isn't a game."

"I know it isn't a game, sir," the chrononaut replied. "In fact, I take this matter with complete seriousness. After all, the colonel was chasing me and my friends through the Pentagon with the expressed wishes of killing us, I imagine, and I wouldn't take that lightly."

The director of security took a few steps closer to the man, and he leaned up to Parker's ear. "What do you hope to accomplish?"

Parker grinned. "Why don't you take a step outside and listen? You might be surprised by what you hear?"

"Nothing physical?" Hammett orderd. "Violence is off-limits."

"Of course."

"If Chamberlin so much as bats an eyelash the wrong way," Hammett threatened, "I'll be in here faster than you can blink."

"You have my word."

Hesitantly, Hammett cleared the room of his men. Exiting, he closed the door soundly behind him.

"Colonel," Parker greeted the captive.

"Hello, Mr. Parker."

The two men stared at one another for a very long time. Finally, Parker said, "Say hello to my little friend ..."

"I've already met the Mallathorn," the military man interrupted roughly. "After it came to our planet, there was a ceremony to introduce him to the Washington elite. Given my position of prominence in the right circles, I attended the event."

"Then you're old friends?" Parker chimed.

"Hardly."

As comfortably as he could under the weight of the containment suit, Parker stepped forward, pulling out a chair and sitting down. "Whew!" he said. "You can't imagine what a relief this is. The suit must weigh a ton."

"I imagine that it does."

"Yeah, you can take my word for it."

"I will."

"You know," Parker began, trying to sound conversational, "this suit really is more for your protection than it is for mine."

The colonel glanced up at the younger man. He gritted his teeth, biting back his reply, and relaxed his jaw. He let out a short breath and relaxed in the chair.

"See, if I'm not in this suit, then I'm leaking radiation ... a form of temporal radiation ... into the atmosphere, into my immediate environment. It's toxic, from what I've been told and from what I've seen, unless you've been either inoculated or cured from the exposure with a drug called Chronoticin." Raising an eyebrow, Parker asked, "Have you heard all about that, colonel?"

Not speaking, the man simply nodded.

"That's good."

Turning, Parker ordered, "Larry, lock the door."

The alien nodded.

The unmistakable click of the bolt latching could be heard throughout the room.

"Larry," he said, "make sure it doesn't open."

His attention now back on his one-time attacker, Parker said, "How do you like them apples, colonel?"

"You won't do anything," Chamberlin challenged.

"And why's that?"

"Because you're a hero."

"I'm a hero?"

"A decorated hero, at that."

"Really?"

"Yes," he tried. "The government has bestowed countless recognition on Frank Parker and the entire BackStep as a result of their bids to save mankind."

"Don't you like heroes, colonel?"

"It has nothing to do with liking them," the man argued. "It has everything to do with a policy this Administration has to rewrite history ... and that has to stop."

"Which brings us to why you came here and why you followed us deeper into the Pentagon, doesn't it, sir?"

Smiling nervously, the colonel shook his head. "You won't do it."

"I won't?"

"Of course, you won't."

"Do you believe in heroes, colonel?"

Parker reached up and flipped one of the seals on his helmet. Angrily, it clicked back, and a hiss of depressurized air sprayed into the air about the table.

The pounding on the door intensified.

"Let me tell you how I see things, sir," the chrononaut said, slowly lowering his hand to the table. "The way I see things, you came here – to the Pentagon – with a single goal in mind, and that goal was either to assassinate me or to assassinate Larry, my little Mallathorn friend over there."

"Hello, colonel," the alien piped.

"In the rush to do your master's bidding," Parker continued, "you placed at risk the lives of two more people – Dr. Nina Welles and an ordinary citizen, Mr. Ebdon Finkle. Those two I also call my friends. We've been through an awful lot together ... and I can't tell you how it pains me to learn that the United States government – your government – my government – would put two innocent people at risk."

The colonel was no longer staring at the other man's face. Now, he fixed his eyes on to the pressure seal of the containment suit about Parker's neck. He thought he could see the flow of air coming out of the suit, but he guessed he must've been imaging it.

"Colonel?"

"In any conflict," the man tried, "there are ... necessary casualties."

"Necessary casualties?" Parker asked. "Is that how you define ordinary citizens you've taken an oath to protect? Does that uniform you're wearing mean nothing to you, colonel?"

Quickly, Parker reached up and undid a second clasp. Again, the helmet jerked a bit as the force of escaping air pushed the bubble further apart from the main suit.

"That's enough," Chamberlin said.

"I'll decide when it's enough," the chrononaut snapped.

"You won't kill me."

"I may surprise you."

"You won't do it."

"So far as I'm concerned," Parker argued, "you don't even exist." He smiled at the military man who had grown nervous. He noticed the thin bead of sweat forming on the colonel's forehead. "Haven't you heard? This isn't even my timeline. Hell, I don't even know if there's a way back for me. Isn't that right, Larry?"

Derisively, Chamberlin stated, "I've no reason to fear you, Parker. Those men out there? They're already at the door. As soon as one of them pulls out his key, this whole deluded trick of yours is over."

"You think it's that simple, do you?"

"Yes, I do."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am."

Chuckling, Parker offered, "Colonel, do you think I'd be that stupid?"

Chamberlin sat up in his chair.

"Well, you said that you'd met the Mallathorn," the chrononaut agreed, "but it's sounding very much to me that you don't know the Mallathorn ... at least not the way I do." Pointing at the alien hovering off his left shoulder, he added, "That little guy there has some great control of objects. Tele- something or other."

"Telekinesis," Larnord explained.

"And what the means is that those men outside can stick as many keys as they like into that doorknob, colonel," Parker announced, "but it ain't gonna turn. Larry won't let it ... will ya, Larry?"

"I gave me my word that I wouldn't allow any other human to enter this room, Frank."

"That's a good boy."

Reaching out, Parker stroked the alien's tentacles as though he were scratching a dog's ear.

"Director Hammett!" Chamberlin finally shouting, losing his composure. "Hammett, you've got to help me!"

"Yell all you like," the chrononaut said innocently. "There's nothing he can do."

"DIRECTOR HAMMETT!"

"Colonel," Parker interrupted. "Really, don't behave this way. It's a disgrace to the uniform. No one's going to hurt you. Sure, the air in the room once I remove my helmet might kill you – in time – but that's a risk I'm willing to take."

The bead of sweat suddenly broke and ran down the colonel's forehead. It arched over his eyebrow and ran down the side of his nose.

"You won't do it."

"Colonel, I'm not even a resident of this timeline," he countered. "Will you please tell me how your world could even try me in a court of law for murder given the fact that – technically – I don't exist?"

"YOU WON'T DO IT!"

"I will do it, colonel," Parker replied softly, "unless you tell me exactly what I need to know."

The uniformed man shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

Turning to the nearby two-way mirror, Parker yelled, "Get the recorders going, boys. I think you're going to hear what all of us need to know."

"What is it that you want?"

"Pendley," Parker stated. "You work for Senator Pendley, don't you?"

Curling back his lips as he bit down on them, the colonel finally said, "Yes, I do. The senator has commandeered personnel that he knows have been assigned to the working division of FEMA. We've been broken into cells, mostly. I don't know any of the members from other cells. I only know the group that I command, the group that was assigned here to the Pentagon."

"So you don't know who's in charge of the other cells?"

"I couldn't even tell you a single person assigned to any other cells," the colonel explained. "It's not an uncommon practice in order to maintain security and operational readiness in the event that one cell is compromised."

Parker nodded. "Do you know how many cells Pendley has under his command?"

"No."

"Colonel, you answered too quickly."

Disappointed with him, Chamberlin shook his head. "That I know ... the senator has two cells at his immediate command ... my group ... and he has a group working out of Bolling."

"Bolling? The Air Force?"

"Yes."

Curious, Parker asked, "Why would he want an air tactical unit?"

"I don't know."

"You aren't lying, are you?"

"I swear to you, Parker. That's all I know about his accomplices."

The younger man nodded. "Who were you sent to kill?"

His face hardened, the colonel slowly glanced over at the hovering alien.

"The senator wanted us to bring him the head of the Mallathorn," he stated without emotion. "Without the Mallathorn, the government would be unable to restart the entire BackStep program."

"What are you talking about?" Parker tried. "The government already has a Sphere. All they would have to do would be to step back in time and stop you from killing Larry."

"No," the colonel answered. "One of Pendley's demands to the White House was that all technology associated with the BackStep Project would be turned over to him ... for destruction."

"Why?"

The military man sighed heavily. "You have to understand that there's a group – a small but vocal group – that exists within the Washington elite. We don't support the government's use of BackStep to change the natural order of events."

"You don't support time travel," the chrononaut challenged, "in order to save lives?"

"We believed that the government was re-writing history," Chamberlin stated. "We believed that the government was, possibly, averting catastrophes that were written into destiny. These events had to happen in order for us to become the race of people that we were supposed to be."

"By who's design?"

"By our own," he said. "Mankind? Hell, Parker. We're our own worst enemy. Even Abe Lincoln knew that and said so over a century and one-half ago. If we weren't allowed to make our mistakes, we weren't becoming who we were meant to become. It isn't that hard to follow."

"But why allow people to die horribly when you can avert it?"

"Who says those people weren't supposed to die to begin with?"

"We should," Parker argued. "All of us should."

The older man slowly shook his head. "Spoken like a true member of the BackStep Project."

"No," he challenged. "That was spoken like a true, compassionate human being." He leaned forward. "It's our responsibility to stop suffering when we have the power to do it, Chamberlin, not when some Washington politician gets the idea for the purpose of getting re-elected. BackStep was never used to change the course of human history. It was used to save lives. It was used to save existence. It was used to end suffering ... not to give anyone some political edge."

"Maybe not today," the colonel challenged, "but ... were it allowed to go on ... someone undoubtedly would have, Parker." The man rolled his eyes. "Don't be so naïve! These are ... these are politicians we're talking about! At what point do they decide a BackStep is unnecessary? Do you think that President Campbell – if he were to lose the next election to office – wouldn't think about sending you back in time to change the outcome of the election? Of course, he would! Any politician would! That's what they do! They solidify their hold on power!" Bitterly, he added, "It was only a matter of time."

"Fine," Parker concluded. "You believe what you want to believe, colonel. I'll believe what I believe, and I believe that no President would use a BackStep for political purposes. That's the world I live in. That's the world I know." He pointed at the man. "But, if Pendley believed he could take the project from the government so easily, then I'm willing to guess that your attack on the Mallathorn isn't the only card he has up his sleeve! There are others who would like to get their hands on the BackStep module, and – if what you say about politicians is true – then Pendley must be in league with someone else."

"The Elders."

"What?"

"The Elders," Chamberlin repeated. "He's working on behalf of the Elders."

"Who are they?"

"I don't know."

"But you know he's working with them?"

"Yes, I do."

"How do you know it?"

"Because ... they contacted me."

Parker sat back in his chair. He studied the military man's expression, and he thought he saw more than just a few hints of disappointment in his tired expression.

"The Elders wanted to attack America," he said. "They contacted Pendley through his own network of global intelligence, and he's received a list of several targets – mutually exclusive targets – that would send another message of terror to the Americans." The colonel paused to lick his lips. "You have to understand ... these people want to bring the U.S. government to its knees, and they only way they can do it is through terror. If you thought September 11th was big, then imagine what they could do if they got their hands on Pendley's temporal ray gun. It would be ... complete annihilation of our country ... exactly what the terrorists want."

"Where is he operating out of?" the man demanded.

"I don't know."

"I don't believe you."

Reflexively, the chrononaut reached up and grabbed the last clasp on his protective suit's collar.

"If I pull this thing, colonel," he said, "you'll die."

"We all die."

"But our country?" Parker challenged. "It doesn't have to. You believe in that, too, once not too long ago. As a matter of fact, that's the only reason anyone puts on that uniform you're wearing."

"What do you know about me?" the man asked viciously.

"I know you were once a soldier, and a soldier believes it's his job to defend his country against any threat," he explained. "I believe – somewhere along the way – you lost sight of that goal. It isn't too late, colonel, to get it back."

Chamberlin leaned his head back and closed his eyes. He was tired of all this. He was tired of the questions, of the fighting, of the penance he carried in his soul.

"I don't know where Pendley's base is," he finally said. "I only know that it's here ... somewhere in Washington ... and that's it."

"Where is he, colonel?"

"Parker," the man said, "if I knew ... I would tell you."

"On your honor?"

"On my honor."

Easily, Parker brought down the helmet, forcing the lip back into the metal groove. He fumbled around the neck, found the two lifted clasps, and he closed them, sealing the temporal radiation back inside.

"Welcome back to your country, colonel," he said.

END of Chapter 58


	59. Chapter 59

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 59

Five Days, Ten Hours, Forty-Four Minutes

"Chief Stoddard," the White House operator said from the comm relay, "I have Mr. Craig Donovan on Line Three."

"Who?"

"Craig Donovan, sir," she explained. "He's currently with the National Security Administration and formerly of the BackStep Program. He says he needs to speak with you regarding Dr. Isaac Mentnor."

"Thank you."

"What's going on, Ethan?" the President asked from the video screen.

"We'll know in a minute, sir." Stoddard reached out and tapped the flashing green button. "Mr. Donovan, this is Ethan Stoddard. I understand you're inquiring about Dr. Mentnor?"

"Not inquiring, sir," Donovan replied. "I have some information that I believe you need to act upon."

"Dr. Mentnor should be away from the White House by now," he answered quickly. "You'll forgive me as I can't divulge any of the details ..."

"Chief," the man interrupted, "I know all about Senator Pendley ... but, honestly, that's not the reason for my call."

Stoddard glanced up at the speakerbox. "Go ahead."

"You might need to send one of your technicians into the communications juncture beneath the War Room, sir," Donovan tried. "Acting upon information that he discovered on his own, Isaac took it upon himself to re-initialize the satellite surveillance system. An electronic detection software on his laptop led him to where he is ... and a man at his age has no business doing this kind of work, sir."

The chief rubbed a cool hand to his forehead. "The recovery of our national tracking system was due to Dr. Mentnor?"

"Yes, sir."

"But how did he ...?"

"Sir, Isaac can brief you on the details," Donovan stated. "I know that you'll want to bring the President up to speed on what's developed. However ... it would appear that Isaac also uncovered the mole on your staff. It was Chloe Vandemark."

Stoddard turned to face the viewscreen. The President held a look of incredulity, his eyes wide and his mouth open. Immediately, the chief asked, "Is Chloe with Dr. Mentnor?"

"She was," he explained, "but ... I believe she's dead, sir."

"Dead?"

"As I understand, she tried to stop Isaac from removing the device that co-opted our satellites. In the act of defending himself, the doctor said that her gun went off. She was hit ... and I told Isaac to leave her body there for it to be retrieved by the proper White House authorities."

"Thank you, Craig," Stoddard replied. "I'll have the Secret Service see that she's tended to."

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"Chloe was a friend of mine," the younger man said. "I know that she's a single parent and she has a son, sir. Would it be possible to send an agent to inform the boy? I'd hate for him to learn of this any other way. I give you my word that I'll look in on him as soon as ... well ... the situation warrants."

"We'll a bit short-staffed at the moment," Stoddard confessed. "As soon as I can spare the agent, I'll send someone over." Another light blinked on the relay. "Mr. Donovan, I'm going to have to place you on hold for a moment." The chief reached up and tapped the key. "Yes?"

"Chief Stoddard, I have Senator Pendley on Line 5."

Again, the President looked surprised.

Smiling, the chief explained, "When Dr. Mentnor disconnected the device, it would appear that the good senator also lost his control over the Red Phone, sir."

"That makes perfect sense." The President turned away for a moment, clearly writing some notes on a pad of paper off screen, and then he explained, "Let Donovan off the horn, and let's see what the senator has to say for himself."

"Yes, sir." Again, Stoddard punched several buttons on the device. "Mr. Donovan, I have another call that the President and I must take. Thank you for your service. Please leave your contact number with the operator in case I need to reach you again."

"Thank you, chief," Donovan said, and the line cleared.

There was an audible 'click.'

"Senator?" Stoddard asked. "Are you there?"

"That was very rude of you, Ethan."

"I apologize, senator," the chief replied, "but a situation developed here that required my attention. I'm sure you can understand. The President is on the line, sir."

"Mr. President," Pendley began, "I have to say that I'm disappointed."

"It's I who is disappointed in you, Arthur," Campbell retorted. "This entire affair is your responsibility. The lives of the crew of the Basilisk will be on your head, Arthur, and that's going to carry with it a penalty that I don't think you'll be able to bear."

"Sir," the senator tried, "I have no doubt that, once the events of today are brought to light, the families of the Basilisk's crew will agree – as will the rest of the world – that those deaths were unnecessary."

"Stop playing this mind game, senator," Stoddard interjected with serious force. The man had grown very tired from the increasing stress of the last hour, and he didn't care if it showed any longer. He was tired. He was in danger. He felt the fate of the country in his hands – as did his President – and he didn't want to be bullied into submission any more by a Congressman. "When the world learns of what you've done, I think they'll have a very different reflection on history."

"Thank you for that soliloquy, Ethan," the man replied, "but – right now – were I you I would be more concerned about what comes next and not how your legacy will be written in to the history books."

"Fine, senator," the chief remarked tiredly. "Why don't you tell – now that we've refused to acquiesce to your set of ridiculous demands – just what it is that does come next?"

"Now that you have full control of your satellites at your command, might I assume that you've witnessed the full capabilities of my weapon?"

"Given the present set of circumstances, senator, I don't think it's safe to assume anything," Stoddard explained. "However, I do have telemetry coming in – as we speak – for both the White House and the President to review."

The senator cleared his throat. "Then you will shortly see what it is I'm capable of doing."

"Arthur, please," Campbell tried. "You know my position. You know that I won't negotiate with you. You know that I won't negotiate with any other body. When it comes to terrorism, my position has been very clear. I will not bend. I will not falter."

"Yes, I admire your dedication to such archaic thinking, Mr. President," Pendley offered. "But it's precisely that way of thinking that's an obvious risk when you're dealing with a weapon that can send not only your civilization but the entire world back to the Stone Age ... all at the press of a button, sir."

The three of them grew silent for several moments, allowing the reality of the event to fully seep in.

"This is what I'm proposing," the senator finally said. "As you've disregarded my last set of demands, I won't trouble you with anything more complex than a simple agreement for you to surrender the White House to me. I'm no longer willing to give you the courtesy of serving out your term – of giving any elected President the chance to fill out his or her term. I'm interested solely in taking command of this country."

"The American people won't stand with you, Arthur," the President argued. "And if you think the leaders of the free world will stand back while a lone madman seizes control of the government over the last remaining superpower, then you're far more delusional than I thought you were when this entire campaign of yours began."

"Mr. President ..."

"Let me be perfectly clear with you, Arthur," the man stated flatly. "You've made this personal. You attacked my family. This is no longer about your quest for power. This is about correcting what you've done in the last two days. This is about a cure, not about a disease or a diseased mind."

Interrupting as he feared the conversation had taken a turn for the worst, Stoddard tried, "Senator, if you have a single demand to make, then would you please share with us the consequences if – and only if – the President continues to refuse to meet your demand? What is it that you'll do?"

"Thank you, chief," the man said.

"You're welcome."

"What I intend to do is simple," the senator explained. "I have a weapon, and I intend to use it. I'm giving the White House the opportunity to review the satellite data on the two strikes I've committed thus far. Once you do, I'm quite certain that you'll feel differently. At that time, the realization of what you're up against will make you decide differently. I'll give you two hours. I'll call you. At that time – and at every two hour interval afterwards – I will destroy another target. Again, let me remind you, gentlemen, that these first two targets were relatively benign, so far as influencing public opinion goes. Neither attack is subject to viewing on the evening news. Neither attack is being replayed and dissected on the internet. The world audience is unaware. In two hours, if you fail to surrender the White House to me, then I'll choose a far more public casualty ... and the President will then have the voice of the world to answer to."

END of Chapter 59


	60. Chapter 60

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 60

Five Days, Ten Hours, Thirty-Two Minutes

Isaac Mentnor was relieved when he felt the support harness slip down through the shaft. Quickly, he tucked the device he had recovered from deep beneath the War Room into his pocket, and he stretched his arm carefully over the strap. Easily, he forced it down over his shoulders and pulled it snug under his arms. From above, the Secret Service hoisted him up, out of the shaft, and set him on the floor.

"I hope you don't take this the wrong way, doctor," the dark-suited young man tried, "but you're a bit too old to be playing Indiana Jones."

"Don't I know it, son."

* * *

The War Room was buzzing with activity. Its endless screens were flood with the telemetry that now – thanks to him – was being electronically beamed in from all over the world. On several screens, he noticed technicians quickly reviewing the pictures from over Alaska: the endless palette of pure white was suddenly blotted by a huge gaping hole in the powdered ground. Mentnor shook his head. He couldn't imagine how someone could think to create such a weapon, let alone use one. The world was full of madmen, he knew, and BackStep was just a single, solitary operation ... it couldn't stop all of them, even if Frank Parker or Channing Michelson had all the time in the world. Life wouldn't be that fortunate.

Still, on other screens, he saw an endless expanse of blue.

"What's happened?" he asked, turning to the young agent that had escorted him out of the maintenance area. "Have we been attacked again?"

"I believe so, sir." Taking his arm, Mentnor followed as the man led him to the nearest bank of screens affixed to the long stretch of wall. "I'm not completely certain about this, but I believe we're looking at the Persian Gulf."

"The Gulf?"

"Yes," he said. "There were some images – several moments ago – that I noticed the Peacetime Drilling Rigs above the water."

"But ... why would anyone strike an ocean?"

Then, it dawned on him.

"What did he hit?" Mentnor asked.

So far as I know, sir," the agent began, "nothing. At least, that's what I can tell you from what I saw." Quickly, the agent shouted out to one of the technicians. He asked for the man to replay the attack that happened to be captured by one of the defense satellites over the Gulf, and the screen blanked for a moment only to be replaced by another shot of perfect blue, small wave lines stretched across the screen. The water was peaceful. After several seconds, Mentnor noticed that the liquid suddenly moved as if a huge hand had reached down into the body of water and stirred. He watched as torrents of steam rose from the Gulf – reaching upward as if into the face of the satellite's lens – and splattered into every conceivable direction. The water beneath seemed to be bubbling, churning, boiling from an unseen heat. Then, there was a flash of brilliant light – the camera had undoubtedly detected something like a heat signature of a massive laser blast – and the water ... simply ... vanished? It was gone, there before but now nothing but a memory, an afterimage reflect on the back of the eye. Mentnor blinked, and another wall of water poured angrily into the gaping hole.

"My Lord," he whispered.

"Dr. Mentnor!"

Quickly, he turned, and he watched as Chief Stoddard marched over to where he stood.

"Given this development and my need of your expertise here, doctor, I'll spare you prosecution for violating my order to evacuate the White House," the man stated as he approached. "And, please, spare me the trouble of placing you under house arrest, ordering what few agents I have left to stay at your side, and share with me what exploits you're planning to undertake in the future before you undertake them, will you?"

The scientist felt his face flush red with embarrassment. "I apologize, chief."

Waving a hand, Stoddard snapped, "Spare me the platitudes, Isaac ... and call me 'Ethan.'"

"Yes, sir."

The chief stopped directly in front of the man.

"I hear that we owe you a debt of thanks for returning control of the satellites to the President."

Mentnor nodded. "I'm sorry to report that ... my efforts were not without casualty."

"Yes," Stoddard agreed. "Donovan called me ... and he told me about Chloe."

"I'm so sorry ... Ethan."

If he didn't know better, Mentnor thought he recognized a glimpse of regret twinkling in the younger man's eyes.

"What's happened has happened, Isaac." The chief quickly changed his expression as he knew that now wasn't the time to wax on about life and death. "Working in Washington teaches all of us many lessons, not the least important of which is that each of us chooses what cause to serve and whether that cause will be just or ... less-than-perfect." He nodded to the man at Mentnor's side. "Agent Golanski will oversee the recovery of Chloe's body." The young man immediately responded by leaving the scene, heading back in the direction of the maintenance door. "I understand you have this device that's caused us so much delay."

Mentnor retrieved the egg-shaped device from his pocket. He held it out for the chief, but Stoddard held up a hand. "You're the doctor, doctor," he chirped with an odd irony. "Please, show me how this works."

Together, they strolled over to the console where the older man had left his laptop. From his briefcase, Mentnor produced an electronic cord. He cracked open the egg and found a spot to plug into the interior circuitry – working from a standard USB connection – and he said, "It would appear that the senator or Miss Vandemark used a conventional computer to program this device. Let's see what we can find."

He took a chair and pulled up a quick diagnostic program. Accessing the external drive, Mentnor glanced at the long scroll of program files that appeared on the screen.

"This is a fairly standard cache of command files," he announced after reviewing the data on his small screen. "This configuration is hardly unusual, by any stretch of the imagination." However, he clicked on one file folder – WH3MGWest – that he didn't recognize. "This one doesn't make any sense." The folder refused to open, instead offering up a block requesting a password.

"I know what that is," Stoddard announced, much to Mentnor's surprise. "That's the network address to Chloe's office in the West Wing of the White House." He pointed at the password block. "Try 'magnet,'" he said. "All lowercase. It's a standard command password for the entire encryption system."

The scientist typed in the word, but the device refused. "I would imagine that this device is governed by an entirely different set of password-protected commands," he said. "The odds would be very high that Chloe quite possibly even altered the password from what Senator Pendley had initially installed into the program."

"Can you crack it?"

Mentnor grimaced. "I'm no seasoned expert on this particular type of stealth technology ... but I might be able to get somewhere with it, given some time." He noticed a command file, and he realized that the device was possibly still operating on its own internal power supply. "I could be wrong, but I believe this thing is still transmitting."

Reaching to the nearest phone, Stoddard grabbed the received and tapped the buttons for a line. "Yes," he declared into the mouthpiece, "this is Chief Stoddard. Get someone over to Chloe Vandemark's office right now. Take a look at her monitor. I want to know what's happened on that machine."

From his chair, the scientist glanced up at the younger man. "You don't think ...?"

"Like I said, Isaac, I'm no scientist," he offered. "I failed horribly at it regardless of what level of education required it ... but I'm willing to make a guess that the device is exercising some sort of failsafe, transmitting through a connection with Chloe's computer."

Suddenly, the chief looked up as Mentnor barely heard the voice on the other end of the phone. Stoddard asked a few quick questions before he nodded and hung up.

"Sonuvabitch," he swore.

"What is it, Ethan?"

"Her P.C. is up and running," he explained. "It's displaying a message that I expected. There's a program running that's deleting all files on her hard drive. But ... the system has also just emailed a flash priority message out through the White House server."

"An email?" the scientist asked. "To whom?"

Stoddard frowned. "It appears that Chloe sent her last words to the media."

"What?!"

"She's just alerted the White House Press Corps that the country is under attack."

END of Chapter 60


	61. Chapter 61

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 61

Five Days, Ten Hours, Twenty Minutes

"It wants to talk to you," Colonel McGinty announced, looking at Frank Parker. The chrononaut sat quietly at the table, reviewing the small cache of papers Bruce Hammett had placed in front of him on the recent activities of Senator Arthur Pendley. He closed the file and stood.

"What's Larry want now?" Parker asked, rising and walking over to where the man waited.

"Like I said," the man tried, "it's asking for you." He crossed his arms and stood looking through the glass port into the isolation chamber. The alien was seated on the cot. Its eyes were quizzically discovering every corner of the room in which it sat, waiting patiently for what was to come next. "The Mallathorn says ... Larnord said that the mission here is complete, and it'll be returned home now."

Surprised, Parker opened his eyes. "No kidding?"

"No."

He watched as the being's tentacles slowly lifted once more, swirling gently in the air about its head, and then they relaxed – dropping like a brick – and slapped the skin around its small shoulders.

"Then I guess I'd better say goodbye."

"Frank," McGinty said, leaning close to the younger man, "you can't let Larnord leave this world. It brought us the gift of time travel after your ... well, after your untimely death. Your act of courage sacrificed yourself and the Sphere ... and Larnord gave us the ability to restart the BackStep Program with fresh technology. The President ... the government ... hell, the world owes the Mallathorn a debt of gratitude, but ..."

"But that doesn't extend to allowing him to leave now that he's concluded his mission, colonel?" Parker asked abruptly, cutting the man off in mid-sentence.

The two stood their ground, refusing to give the other any high ground in the argument.

Finally, Parker offered, "Colonel, the truth to the matter is that I don't even belong here ... in this world ... in your timeline." Pointing at the window, he asked, "How can you expect me to go in there and tell Larry that it's his duty to stay?"

The man tried to summon the logic, but, after struggling to find his words for several minutes, he shrugged.

"Let the little guy have his peace," Parker concluded. "It's the least we can do."

* * *

The door swung open, and Parker reached up, pulling the clasps on the helmet toggle, and yanked the fishbowl off his head. Lowering it to his side, he brought one hand up and tussled his hair.

"You know," he told the Mallathorn, "I'm really not going to miss this suit ... once I get back to my own timeline."

"I do not know that that will be possible, Frank."

Walking easily over to the cot, the chrononaut sat down beside the alien being. "Larry, you know that, in my own timeline, I have a pretty consistent track record at doing the impossible. If you want to keep playing this word games, okay. I'll let you have this last one. But, somehow or other, I'm going home."

"We all go home, Frank," Larnord told him. "Sometimes, going home is all we can do in order to put our lives back in order."

"I'll give you a big 'amen' to that, Larry."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Never mind."

The creature again lifted its tentacles, a gesture Parker had come to know as showing its confusion with his phrases, his words, his terms.

"The colonel says that you're taking off?"

"Yes, Frank. It is time for me to leave."

Pursing his lips, Parker nodded. "Larry, the colonel has reminded me of my obligation to the United States government. They do sign my paycheck, after all ... so, given what's happened, I'm only going to ask you if it's absolutely necessary that you leave, and I'll accept whatever answer you give to me. Okay?"

"I have to leave," it said. "My mission here was solely to create this timeline – to re-order the events as I've done – and to bring you here. Now that I'm certain you've arrived, I know that I can leave this world in your capable hands."

"My capable hands?" Parker cocked an eyebrow at small creature. "But I thought you said that this timeline was destined to be destroyed? Earlier, you made it sound as though there was nothing that I could do."

The Mallathorn smiled. "I only acknowledge that you have stated your intentions to prove my foundation as incorrect, Frank. This timeline – as all timelines inevitably do – will end. When will it end? You have taken me to task, so I will show you the same courtesy you afforded me in listening, in compassion, and in understanding."

The chrononaut reached out and placed his hand on Larnord's nearest shoulder. "Thank you," he said.

"Thank you, Frank," it replied, "for making me believe in your species once more."

* * *

McGinty and Hammett stood waiting outside the isolation chamber. They watched as the being craned its neck, drifted into midair, and whispered something into Parker's ear. The man – with no expression – nodded, and then he placed his helmet back on his head, latched it back into place, and walked from the cot.

"What do you suppose that was all about?" Hammett asked.

Shrugging, McGinty offered, "Who can tell? Maybe it's just passing advice from one weary time traveler to another. They're kindred spirits, I suppose." As the hydraulics to the chamber's door sounded, the colonel concluded, "I suppose we'll never know what was said."

The heavy door creaked mechanically as Parker pushed it open. Hammett stepped up and took the nearest arm, and he tugged on it, helping the man out. The chrononaut stepped into their room, and, together, the two men heaved the mighty door closed. Once it latched electronically, the three faced one another.

"Mr. Hammett," Parker announced, "thanks for the behind-the-scenes tour of the Pentagon. It's nice to see that all those tax dollars didn't go to waste. Sorry about the mess in your library, but I'm not the one with the brain powers. You can take it out of Larnord's allowance."

The director of security chuckled.

"Colonel," the young man finally said, "my time here is done. I think I need to get to the White House to find out what's gone on while I've been out of commission. And, sir? I'd like you to contact Director Talmadge. Let's regroup the entire BackStep team. Now that I know what the hell is going on here, let's put our heads together to find out what we can do to stop it."

END of Chapter 61


	62. Chapter 62

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 62

Five Days, Ten Hours, Ten Minutes

Stoddard couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Leaving the doctor to continue his work at decrypting the entire contents of Chloe Vandemark's letter to the press, he didn't understand how everything had spiraled out of control so quickly. Not long ago – once the White House had recovered use of the satellite defense network – he had experienced a brief elation ... only to have it quickly snuffed out with the lose of the Basilisk, the latest in the long line of tactical weapons for a new century. Then, he poured himself into the job, strategizing with the President what their next response should be to the new development, and, in work, he always found consolation. He always found himself. He always found some stability ... only to have it even more succinctly destroyed once he learned about Chloe's traitorous actions. He refused to accept that she had collaborated with Pendley, despite the evidence in front of his own eyes. She had worked so hard and so long to get into a position of prominence within Campbell's staff. Stoddard had personally witnessed her abilities, and he believed so strongly in her that his acceptance to the President's request to join the Administration was tied directly to bringing Chloe with him. How easily was it for her to betray her country? How easily had she betrayed him? What possibly could Pendley had promised her?

Now, this development gave him a diversion from the work he had Dr. Mentnor had started – trying to get to the bottom of an unanticipated leak to the press – and he was near the breaking point. Storming into the conference room, he glanced up at the President on the viewscreen. Campbell was shuffling some papers, having a conversation with Secretary Montoya also in seclusion, but Stoddard brought that to a close quickly.

"ABSOLUTELY NOT!" he shouted.

The President turned on the screen to face his chief of staff. "Now, Ethan, take it easy ..."

"Mr. President," Stoddard began, "I will not – under any circumstances – allow you or any person to return to the White House, sir ... not while this madman sits with his finger on the trigger."

"Ethan, calm down," Campbell tried. "Let me explain to you what I believe."

"I protest."

"Get in line behind the Joint Chiefs."

"Mr. President ..."

"Ethan!"

The chief realized he had been behaving entirely out-of-line, and he dropped, exhausted, into the chair that had given him very little comfort over the last several hours.

"Ethan, listen to me," Campbell began again, this time with more poise and control. "You're running on fumes. Every one of you there must be at this point, and you need me there."

"What about Pendley?"

"Pendley isn't going to attack the White House," the man reasoned. "He needs some way to communicate with us. Now that you and Dr. Mentnor have severed his control over the House's communication systems, he no longer has the Red Phone. That means he'll be left with far more conventional means of contact, which leads me to believe that he'll do as he did earlier. He'll call us. He'll go through the White House switchboard. That means, Ethan, that we'll have the ability to trace his call with the satellites, and we'll know where he is. Now, the Secretary of Defense assures me that, given what we know, we can't conclude that Pendley is in direct contact with the weapon, but it's indisputably clear that he's in charge. He's calling the shots. If we learn where he is, then we'll be in a position to exert some leverage over him. If necessary, we'll have the Secret Service take him out. In any event, my place is there, at the White House."

"Mr. President," Stoddard countered, "I have technicians working on locating the senator via his telephone call right now. Unfortunately, he was using some form of encryption technology. It seems to be leading us on a goose chase that always ends at Chloe Vandemark's telephone. Now that we know that she was working with him, it doesn't come as much of a surprise, but he still has the upper hand in this negotiation."

"This is not a negotiation," the President countered. "He's trying to extort control of this country, of our resources, for whatever his personal whim is, Ethan, and I'll not allow it. He's not going to attack the White House." After a pause, the man added, "I think we're all in agreement that he's going to do everything possible to make good on his threat – the next target will be a public target – but, right now, that's hardly my concern."

"Then why must you come back here?"

"Because of that email," Campbell explained. "You know quite better than I do, Ethan, that once the American people find out about this, they're going to demanding some answers. When I give them – whenever I say whatever it is I intend to say to them – I'm going to do it as President from the Oval Office. I will not give in to Pendley. I will not appear weak to the people that put me in that office. I will not issue some statement through one of my staffers when I should be delivering it directly to our citizens from the home that they've given me."

"I understand what it means symbolically, sir," Stoddard countered, "but we're talking about survival."

"I'm not talking about survival, Ethan," he said. "I'm talking about showing Pendley that, regardless of his threats, we have no intention of backing down."

"But, sir ..."

"That's the end of this debate," Campbell announced. "I've made my decision, Ethan. I'm not asking you for your agreement, and I'm certainly not asking for your permission. The Cabinet will remain here in the event that Pendley does throw all caution to the wind and prove me wrong. We'll need to maintain some ability to lead our great nation if worse comes to worse. But I'll be on my way shortly. The helicopter has already landed, and I'll be in the air within five minutes."

Stoddard closed his eyes. He desperately needed some sleep. His body didn't have the strength to argue the logic any longer.

"I understand, Mr. President ... and I apologize. I didn't mean to speak out of turn, sir."

"There's no need for any of that, either," the man stated with a slight grin at the corner of his mouth. "You've been carrying the lion's share of the workload, son, and now the Calvary's coming to provide you the support you've so badly needed. Get the House ready. I'm coming home."

END of Chapter 62


	63. Chapter 63

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 63

Five Days, Nine Hours, Fifty-Six Minutes

Olga Vukavitch sat at the table, the materials provided by the Washington DC police, the Central Intelligence Agency, the National Security Administration, and Great Britain's Ministry of Intelligence. With the wealth of material, she was convinced that every sane nation in the world maintained a 'file-in-progress' on Richard DeMarco. The man, she concluded, was nefarious. He had, literally, hundreds of known aliases that he used in specific parts of the world. He was directly responsible, as best she could count, for over two hundred terrorism-related deaths in thirty-seven countries, but he claimed responsibility for, astonishingly, thousands more. Wherever a splinter group or terror faction had sprung up to perform deeds against democratic interests, DeMarco established ties. True, he may not have been involved with all of the events he claimed participation, but his reputation certainly gave him the credentials and the credibility to feign involvement. She wasn't certain what Bradley Talmadge wanted her to learn any longer; if it involved death, there was some kind of cosmic connection – however remote – back to Richard DeMarco, and the immeasurable possibilities frightened her.

However, despite the mountain of evidence to show the man's pure villainy, Olga found him a man with only mysterious origins. She couldn't find – nor could any intelligence bureau – any documentation supporting the man's birth. It was as if one day he merely sprang into existence. Though there was some evidence linking his mother to a woman in Saudi Arabia, there wasn't any conclusive proof that even she had lived there. Olga was quite certain – as was the CIA – that DeMarco claimed the country of Jordan as his homeland, but, again, it was a claim that couldn't be reasonable substantiated or reasonable disproved. Also, DeMarco was linked to a group of American nationals who apparently coordinated a terror network against their own country – gunrunners, drug dealers, sex merchants, and the like – but any person who had come forward with a provable link back to DeMarco always died under 'curious circumstances.'

Richard DeMarco had as interesting a way with life as he did with death, and Olga decided that there was little to be learned in spending any more time investing in the files. Slowly, she closed the binder from the NSA and brushed it back into the disheveled stack.

Almost on cue, the door opened. Channing Michelson – the love of her life – walked in.

"What's the matter?" he asked, sighting her listless expression. "Have you run out of stuff to read?"

"Yes," she agreed, "voluntarily."

"Have you learned anything new?"

She rolled her eyes, placed her forehead on her forearm, and pressed her head to the table, trying hard to stifle an oncoming headache. "There's plenty of information available on Richard DeMarco, but much of it avoids sound conclusions ... mostly because there are no sound conclusions available. He's the perfect mystery man. He's killed people in over three dozen countries, and ... oh, I'll save the rest for our next mission briefing. I wouldn't want to have to repeat myself."

He prodded the stack of material with a curious finger. "I understand. Keep it to yourself ... like you always do."

Lifting her forehead, she fixed her eyes on him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Dismissing the question, he frowned. "Nothing ... really." He jerked his thumb in the air over his shoulder. "Look, Bradley has given us the green light to head over to the White House. Parker has finished his stint with the Mallathorn, and I guess he's called for some big conference with the President. It's a team debriefing, so let's pack it up."

Still glaring at him, she tried, "You're not going to get out of this that easily, Channing."

"Olga, we don't have time for this."

"And you act as if that's my fault."

"No," he insisted. "I don't. It's ... well ... it's all our fault."

"But you didn't say that," she challenged, finally sitting up in the chair and facing him. "You accused me of keeping things to myself, and yet you stand here unwilling to explain what you meant by it."

"You know what I meant," he accused her.

"No, I don't."

"I meant Frank Parker!"

Suddenly, they grew silent. It was the topic they had begun to discuss two days ago – when this entire affair began – and she thought they had agreed to table the debate until a better place and time. Apparently, Channing had grown uneasy with that decision, and now he was directing his frustration at her.

"Channing," she tried softly, "we talked about this. What happened between Frank and I ... that is 'old news.' I can't do anything to change it, and I'm not looking to do anything to change it today."

"Which means what, exactly?"

"Which means that I really wish that I didn't have to keep making excuses for your jealousy."

"Jealousy?" The man acted as if she had picked up one of the heavy volumes of intelligence from the table and smacked him across the back of his head. He bobbed away from her, turning in the direction of the door. "If that's what you think it is, then you don't understand me as well as I thought you did."

"Then why don't you stop behaving like a fifteen-year-old and tell me what it is I don't understand?"

He stopped but didn't turn to face her.

"You loved him ... a few years ago," he told her.

"Yes," she agreed. "In one sense of the word, I did."

Shuffling his feet, he added, "Love – as you and I have talked – is not an emotion that's easily dismissed."

"I'm not looking to dismiss any feelings I had for Frank," she argued gently. "What I'm looking for is a man to acknowledge that those feelings are a part of my past. I can't hide them. I can't erase them. But, Channing, that doesn't mean I'm going to act on them. I've told you. I won't. I don't need to. I have you in my life, and I couldn't be happier."

Easily, she rose from the chair. She walked around him and positioned herself directly in front, blocking his exit from the room should he decide to bolt.

"Channing, I love you," she said, reaching out and taking his warm hands in hers. "Frank cannot come between you and me. Frank cannot erase the feelings that I have for you. He doesn't intend to, and, if this Frank Parker is the man who I loved previously, then he would understand me well enough to know that it would be a complete waste of his time to try." Tilting her head slightly, she leaned forward and kissed him softly on the lips. "The Channing that I know today would accept my love as it is, and he wouldn't expect me to do anything more than give him my love ... not prove it to him."

The chrononaut sighed. He wasn't certain of what to say, of how to respond. He knew that, of all possible scenarios to make him question her commitment to him, there was very little likelihood of the present variation – the return of a dead man from the past – would ever happen again. But what if Frank Parker was stuck here? What if there was no need for him to disappear into some uncharted future or some undreamed of parallel world? What if he stayed on with the BackStep Program? If Parker was the better time traveler, what place would there be for him in the project? What place would there be for him in Olga's daily life?

He shook his head.

"I hear what you're saying," he tried, "but – until this thing is over – I don't think I can find any peace, Olga."

Slowly, she nodded.

"Then ... for the time being ... let's not concentrate on us," she offered the only truce she could imagine.

"What does that mean?"

"It means that I can't keep having this conversation, Channing," she tried softly. "As much as I love you, I don't want to argue with you. I'll be here for you ... when this is all over. You'll see. But, until it is, let's put all of our effort into doing our jobs. Okay?"

He studied her dark eyes and her warm lips. Suddenly overcome with the desire to touch her, he closed his eyes, trying to block out any romantic thoughts.

"I don't know if I can do that."

"You have to," she said. "I'm not giving you any options. You can either love me ... now and whenever ... or you do your job, and you love me once we can put all of this behind us."

He realized that he didn't have any other argument.

"If that's what we have to do," he agreed, "then we'll have to do it."

"Okay."

She let go of his hand and gave him another quick kiss on the lips. When they parted, she left a dab of moisture, of her lipstick, there on his mouth. He reached up, smiling, and started to wipe it away.

"No," she tried with a wicked smile. "Leave it ... just to give you something to remember what you're missing in the meantime."

END of Chapter 63


	64. Chapter 64

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 64

Five Days, Nine Hours, Forty-Three Minutes

Exhausted, Lisa Clark rolled over onto her back.

She gasped in deep breaths of cool air. The hotel room Richard DeMarco had checked them into was beautiful, as she imagined all of his rooms were wherever he stayed in the world. He insisted on keeping the room temperature very cool – "as crisp as ice," he soothingly taunted her with words separated my kisses down her neck and chest – because the rest of the world didn't know the typical American paradise. She let him turn the thermostat as low as he could, turning up the air conditioning to a brisk, 55 degrees, and then – with complete abandon – she let him ravage her on bitter cool sheets for the last ... the last ... she couldn't guess how long they had been at one another's skin. Now, on her back, she edged closer to him, basking in the warmth of his dark-skinned body, and she slipped one lazy arm across his chest. She felt the thin layer of sweat and found herself suddenly, curiously aroused again – it must've been the musk of his natural scent – and she draped one leg across his naked hip.

"Please tell me that you're not utterly spent," she whispered softly into his ear. When she was finished, she reached up and, with her teeth, caressed his lobe before biting down into his flesh.

"No," he told her, chuckling lightly. "Not utterly spent ... only nearly so."

Turning, he kissed her hard on the mouth, and she parted her lips, tasting his tongue with her. She brought one hand to his check, gripping his face gently under her nails, and she breathed him in deeply. After a moment, they parted, and he rolled away from her.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I have to make a telephone call."

Sitting up, he stretched an arm over the edge of the bed and found his dark jeans. There, on the waist, he found his cell phone. He pulled it off the clip, flipped it open, and lay back down next to her. He touched the proper speed dial, and then he placed the phone to his ear.

"You'd better not be calling another woman."

Smiling over at her, he taunted, "Perish the thought, young lady."

He heard a loud click, and then Arthur Pendley demanded, "Tell me where you are."

DeMarco raised an eyebrow. He heard the urgency, the sense of desperation in the senator's voice, and he didn't know what to make of it.

"No," the terrorist said.

"Stop with these games, Richard."

"I'm not playing any game, Arthur."

"Then tell me where you are."

DeMarco sighed. Slowly, he began caressing the curve of Lisa's left shoulder – her skin was delicate to his touch.

"I am ... nowhere near you."

"How do you know where I am, Richard?"

"As always, that is for me to know, senator."

Gently, Lisa slipped one leg under his, and then she gripped his hip with her thighs. He felt her warmth as she pressed herself closer to him, and he smiled.

"If you know where I am," Pendley stated hurriedly, "then you very well may be inadvertently compromising my plans ... and you know that I won't have any plans of mine compromised ... certainly not by the likes ... of you."

Now, DeMarco felt another warmth, this sensation not of passion but of anger. The emotions were similar, he knew, but both could easily be his undoing. He closed his eyes, allowed the tremor to pass, and relaxed again into the welcoming press of the beauty lying next to him, lying against him, wrapping herself around him.

"Arthur," he said, "you are always so serious."

"And you never seem to take these things you do seriously enough," the senator barked into the phone. "As I said, if you know where I am, then I may be compromised. Right now ... right now, I cannot take any risks."

"What would you have me do?"

Lisa stroked her fingers through the small hairs on his chest, and DeMarco found himself slowly becoming as aroused as she clearly still was.

"Richard, I want to protect you," the senator tried forcefully. "I want to help you. But, right now, I can best do that if you were to come here."

"I would very much like to be where you are, Arthur."

"Then come here," Pendley countered. "Let me protect you."

Tiredly, DeMarco closed his eyes and allowed himself to be swallowed hole by the sensations of pleasure Lisa gave him.

"As you said," he started, "I never tend to take these activities of mine seriously, and that leads me to ask you for a favor. If you are willing to do this one thing – this one small, tiny, inconsequential favor for me – then I will do as you have said, and I will come in ... but I will not be alone."

"You will come alone."

"I do not work for you, Arthur."

"You must come alone," Pendley demanded. "That is non-negotiable."

"I agree that it is non-negotiable," DeMarco said, "but it is you who will not place restrictions on me. You know what I'm capable of."

"AND YOU'VE NO IDEA OF WHAT I'M CURRENTLY CAPABLE OF!"

Ignoring the orders, the terrorist chuckled into the telephone. He waited for Pendley to say something – to say anything – because he had resigned the argument. He would not be told what to do by the senator. He would not allow himself to be pushed around by the older man. It was a matter of ... personal satisfaction.

"All right," Pendley finally conceded the point. "You may bring whomever you like."

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me, Richard," he spat back at the young man. "Just get here as quickly as you can."

"You're forgetting about my favor."

DeMarco heard the sigh over the telephone, and he knew the senator was at the end of his limitations.

"Would it be imprudent of me to assume that this favor somehow involves a woman?"

Again, DeMarco laughed. "Doesn't it always, Arthur?"

"Who is she?"

"Her name is Indiri Farris."

DeMarco pressed the back of his head further into the pillow cradling him as he felt Lisa's fingers massaging down his chest, across his hard stomach, and draping gently – like feathers of human skin – across a minor ticklish spot on his hips. He stifled the reaction – holding it at bay for fear of showing any sign of weakness to another human being – and, instead, savored the control.

"I must know where she is," he told the senator.

"Why?"

"You may check the latest police records," he offered, "and you will see that there has been two attempts on her life."

"Two attempts?" Pendley asked angrily. "Richard, you're getting reckless."

"I have always been reckless. You have said so yourself on many occasions."

"You're going to try to kill her a third time?"

"This time will not be an attempt," the man explained. "This time, I will take care of it myself. I will take care of it personally. But, in order for me to do it, I must know where she is."

"Has she been placed into protective custody?"

"I only know that the last time I went near her," DeMarco began, "I was shot at. I don't know who he was. I only know that he was wearing very little – hospital pajamas, I believe. A black man. He nearly killed me. I'd also like to know who he is, if that is possible. If it isn't, I will find him on my own soon enough."

The terrorist felt Lisa experimenting with his ticklish spot – had she recognized his brief flinch for more than what it was? – and he brought his hand from her shoulder up to her neck, clutching the smooth windpipe under his fingers, cutting off her air.

Immediately, she went completely still. She tried inhaling, couldn't, and forced herself to lay perfectly still. She wouldn't show him any weaknesses, any protest, any fight. She wanted him to control her, to possess, and fussing about a little rough treatment could be seen as a sign of rejection. She pressed herself firmly into the bed, and then she felt him gently loose his grip on her throat as he rolled his body on top of hers, dominating her.

"I will call you back," Pendley snapped.

"Be quick abou t it, Arthur."

END of Chapter 64


	65. Chapter 65

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 65

Five Days, Nine Hours, Thirty-Five Minutes

The helicopter roared over the regal backdrop that was the Washington, D.C. skyline, and Ethan Stoddard watched the craft's descent toward the White House. Now, he could hear the thunder of its mighty propeller, and he knew that the pilot was undoubtedly racing to make up the time lost in the President's hasty departure from Glory Point – wherever that secret hideout was. Draped by two Secret Service agents, both with their weapons drawn and their eyes fixed on the surrounding trees, Stoddard stood patiently on the House back lawn as the chopper arched over the last row of trees, banked slightly to the right, and descended. He pulled his arms in tight over his suit coat, then opted for buttoning the jacket to keep it in place. To his right, he noticed that the agent reached up, tapping a finger into his ear, adjusting the earpiece. Someone was delivering a message, Stoddard knew, and he watched the agent bring his wrist up to his mouth to bark a quick reply – unintelligible over the drum of the helicopter's rotor – into the wrist microphone.

Leaning close to the agent, Stoddard yelled over the drums, "What is it?"

"Dr. Mentnor," the agent shouted back. "I granted him clearance to wait for us in the foyer."

"Thank you."

The copter touched down, and Stoddard heard the sound change suddenly to a pitched whine. As the blades powered down, the down opened, the ramp descended, and more agents of the Secret Service suddenly marched out of the aircraft. The men took up strategic positions about the grounds as the commander-in-chief stepped out and onto the grassy expanse. Quickly, he hurried across the lawn, saw Stoddard waiting for him, and he shouted, "Thank you for greeting me out here, Ethan!"

"It's my pleasure, sir."

They turned in unison and marched toward the White House doors.

"How's it going with decrypting Chloe's email?" Campbell asked.

"Dr. Mentnor is waiting for us inside."

The agents opened the doors for them, and the two men walked easily into the comfort of the foyer. Mentnor quickly rose from the nearby chair and approached the duo. President Campbell saw the older man first, and, smiling warmly, he changed his course in order to meet the scientist halfway.

"Dr. Mentnor!" the President exclaimed.

The two men clasped hands warmly.

"Doctor, you'll have to pardon me if I sound absolutely giddy," Campbell began, "but I find it refreshing news to learn that you've returned to the BackStep Program, sir."

Grinning, the scientist tried to contain his mellowed embarrassment. "Well, Mr. President, I haven't exactly returned to BackStep so much as I was drafted by Director Talmadge."

"You listen to me when I tell you that Bradley Talmadge only has your best interests at heart, Isaac," the man replied. "It was a mistake for this country to allow you to get away, and I, for one, am glad to see that you've been welcomed back into the fold."

"Thank you, sir."

"Chief Stoddard explained that you're been working on Chloe's final email."

The scientist nodded. "As I've explained to the chief, I'm no expert to this particular fashion of encryption, but, from what I've been able to uncover, it would appear that Miss Vandemark simply alerted the press to the facts that we all know," he stated. "Basically, it contains the claim that your son-in-law was killed, the result of a terrorist attack in Alaska. Of course, we now believe that information is erroneous, and we're acting on the intelligence provided by the former Soviet Union. Nathan Ramsey is en route there, and we should be receiving an update from him once he's on the ground." Quickly, the older man stepped aside and gestured toward the hallway. "However ... I hate to break it to you, sir, but there's been another development."

"Don't tell me that Pendley's truck again?" Stoddard quipped, joining the two men.

"No, Ethan," Mentnor answered. "It isn't anything as dastardly as that ... but I would think that, at this point, any development would not be greeted as good news."

"What is it, doctor?"

Glancing about the foyer, he asked, "Erm ... is there a television handy?"

* * *

"Sonuvabitch," Stoddard muttered. 

"Yes," Mentnor agreed. "Sonuvabitch, indeed."

"Pendley knew exactly what he was doing," President Campbell chimed in. "We were just too involved with the events as they unfolded to see what he was up to."

The television screen was lit with the image of the afternoon anchor – Howard Mayweather – of CVN's 'Breaking News' Department. Mayweather was nodding at the screen, showing his officious mug for all his viewing audience to see, as he recounted the facts:

"... again, the footage is a CVN Exclusive provided by protestors to the President's less-than-popular Peacetime Drilling Operations, overseen by the United Nations Security Council, since the regime of Saddam Hussein was ousted by freedom forces last years. I repeat, this footage is not provided by any CVN News personnel on the ground in Saudi Arabia, but it comes to us by protestors keeping their vigil in rafts docked about the drilling platform."

Suddenly, the image onscreen changed, and it was replaced by a heavily-bearded man. The shot was too close, and, after several seconds, the operator zoomed out, showing the dark waters of the Persian Gulf.

"Please keep in mind that what you are seeing was shot at approximately seven-thirty p.m. – just after sunset – off the coast of Iraq," Mayweather droned on despite the lack of his quality face time. His voiceover, however, was full of purpose, as he continued: "CVN has not been able to verify the names or identities of the protestors seen in the footage, and, for that reason, we've asked other network and cable television news outlets to join us in broadcasting this coverage so that the families of those men and women seen in this footage will be informed that everyone involved in what you are about to see are in no way, shape, or form harmed 'on camera.' It is our belief that, as the occupants of this raft clearly were able to see this videotape safetly delivered into the hands of a CVN correspondent on the shore, have not been injured. It is my understanding that, as well, the occupants have returned to see in hopes of catching further evidence of what we believe to have been an underwater nuclear detonation in the Persian Gulf ... just off the shore of what could possibly be northern Iraq ... which you'll see in a few seconds ..."

The bearded fellow in the raft suddenly held up a protest sign – "Stop Senseless Drilling!" – to the camera. He brought his plump hand around and pointed at the sign, directing anyone viewing the tape to read what he had written ... but, suddenly, the man wiped his forehead, dropped his sign, and jerked in the raft. Behind him – over his right shoulder – there was a brilliant flash of blinding white light that lasted only a millisecond. The camera view jerked away from the image then, as the operator was clearly thrown to the floor of the raft, but quickly righted itself, staring over the shoulder of the burly man, desperating zooming and focusing in the direction of the flash. The protestor's hand arched onto the screen, causing the camera to refocus on it, and then the camera saw the small wall of water – its curly white tips barely visible in the darkness – rushing toward them.

"Again," Mayweather repeated in his voiceover, "I want to stress that it is the understanding of CVN News and our affiliates that no person was harmed in the production of this video, but, clearly, the flash would indicate an explosion of some type – the type of which this reporter has never seen before – that turns the waters of the Persian Gulf from serene to rocky in a matter of what appears to be seconds ..."

The wall of water now clearly stretched onto the small screen, and the camera operator tried to maintain his balance in the raft, but he fell forward as the wave smacked into the tiny craft. The image lost all cohesion – the raft obviously submerged in the wake – but then it returned ... and the craft was racing downward into the gap well behind the water. The displacement was tremendous – Mentnor guessed that the raft was easily dropping at a fifty degree angle. The burly man fell into view, rolling about, crushing his own protest sign, but then he caught himself on some handles. Another arm came onscreen – there must have been another occupant in the raft – and it helped the man recover his balance in the descending craft. As quickly as the craft had dipped below the sea level, it coasted back up to the surface, bobbing and weaving, and the camera shot producing more than a touch of nausea. Finally, the burly man rocked forward, firmly planting his knees on the raft's bottom – and he sat up on camera, vehemently pointing at something off screen. Slowly, the cameraman followed his directions, and Mentnor saw that, after the devastation of the wave, the men were propelled almost what he guessed was one-quarter mile away from the drilling platform they were recently almost touching.

The amateur video blanked on the screen, and the concerned expression of Howard Mayweather filled the space.

"No word has yet been issued by the Pentagon regarding this developing story, but CVN News has learned that an email – apparently issued by the White House – does indeed reference a terrorist attack," the newsman stated. "Once we are able to clarify the nature of the events you've just witnessed and, presumably, once our staff can verify the veracity of the email, we will make an announcement ... but, in the meantime, we're going to stay with this breaking news story, seen here as an exclusive across all cable and network news outlets, by CVN."

Stoddard felt the President's hand on his shoulder.

"Get me through to the head of their news department," Campbell said. "I don't care what buttons you have to push, Ethan. You get them on the telephone, and you get them to hold any further broadcast until I have the chance to examine their footage."

"You know how they are," Stoddard tried.

"I know how they are, but I also know that, as a wartime President, I'm not going to stand here and take another hit on the chin."

Lowering his voice to almost conspiratorial levels, the chief asked, "What are you willing to give them in exchange for their cooperation?"

The President ground his teeth together, staring almost blankly at the television screen.

"Tell them they'll get to carry the exclusive response by the White House – just like they coordinated this with the other news outlets – once I'm ready to issue one."

END of Chapter 65


	66. Chapter 66

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 66

Five Days, Nine Hours, Twenty Minutes

Arthur Pendley felt his Blackberry vibrate on his belt.

He stepped away from Watanabe, moving to a private area of the Crypt. Leaning against one of the humming upright compute consoles, he snatched the wireless unit from his waist and brought it up to see. Opening his Direct Message folder, he read:

AMIR: We are pleased with what you have done.

The senator had one of the Crypt monitor's tuned to CVN constantly. He had always felt that he owed it to his country – by virtue of his position – to stay on top of breaking news, and, certainly, what he had done – destroying a secret United States spy submarine on test maneuvers in the Persian Gulf – constituted 'breaking news' ... but the reality was that only a handful of people would know what truly had happened. As the news channel had reported, pundits believed that the deep waters were little more than a shield for some Middle East nation to test a nuclear weapon. Pendley knew such a strike would accomplish multiple objectives: not only would the White House be treated to a first hand observation of what his Temporal Ray could do, but also the situation in the Middle East would destabilize quickly given the vastly theorized probability that some nation – some small independent state – was testing nukes in those waters. Iran would blame Israel. Israel would blame Saudi Arabia. Saudi Arabia would, quite predictably, blame the United States for providing such a weapon of mass destruction to only God, Mohammad, or Allah knew. The President's recent talks to stabilize that violent corner of the world would fall apart, and all of it could be blamed on a rogue nation, not Arthur Pendley.

He knew this would please the Elders. After all, the organization lived for striking fear into the hearts of people of all nations in the name of whatever purpose they served today ... so long as it was anti-American. Making ordinary US citizens believe that the terrors of the Middle East had developed nuclear weapons on this President's watch would only force more and more pressure on Campbell to capitulate ... and, of course, Pendley would be the secret key in that capitulation.

Smiling to himself, Pendley typed:

PEND: I wish I had felt your faith earlier.

AMIR: Earlier I was not convinced of your resolve.

PEND: I am saddened to know that you doubted me.

AMIR: I still doubt you.

Pendley closed his eyes and shook his head in disgust. How could the Elders doubt him now? Hadn't he shown them that – with a single strike – the fate of the world could be easily turned over to them? What did he need to do in order to prove his loyalty? His faith? His willingness to cooperate? Once he was given control of the nation's resources, he would also need the assistance of the Elders to do what no living person before had ever accomplished: bring peace to all nations of the world. Under the threat of the temporal ray and the league of terror known as the Elders, no nation would lift a finger to defend itself. The result of such disobedience? Being eliminated from the face of the planet. That was a risk too great for any people to make.

PEND: How can you doubt me?

AMIR: You can earn our trust with one simple task.

It was never simple, he knew. It was hardly simple when it came to terrorists. They wanted control of the world, and even Pendley wasn't willing to surrender that kind of power to them. He was perfectly comfortable sharing that control ... so long as he maintained his finger over the controls of the Temporal Ray. That would be his insurance to maintaining a status quo never before seen in the history of mankind: true, unimpeachable peace. He would deliver it, or he would die trying. He long ago accepted that fate. But ... what more could the Elders require of him?

PEND: What is it?

AMIR: Destroy the American White House.

The senator's heart skipped a beat. Of course, he had contemplated what a bold strike would accomplish ... but he didn't want to wake the sleeping giant. He knew – if he struck an American landmark – he would unleash a kind of retribution upon himself, upon anyone who had cooperate, upon anyone in any nation that supported his ideals that would make any war in history pale by comparison.

PEND: That would be unwise.

AMIR: The President is no friend of yours.

PEND: I do not wish his death.

AMIR: The President will not be there. Certainly he has been evacuated.

PEND: You will stir the American people from their sleep.

AMIR: The Elders will claim responsibility.

PEND: The Elders are not a household name.

AMIR: This attack will make them one. Your people will never forget it.

PEND: There are many targets that will do this.

AMIR: I want the White House destroyed.

Pendley felt a drip of sweat by his ear, and he reached up, wiping it away angrily. He ground his teeth together as he looked around the Crypt. He wanted to make sure that no one else was watching. He wanted to guarantee the privacy for this entire affair.

PEND: I will take it under consideration.

AMIR: Why do you delay?

PEND: I have already destroyed their submarine.

AMIR: I have thanked you for that.

PEND: I have given them time to consider it.

AMIR: Time is our ally, not theirs.

PEND: That is my point.

AMIR: When will you speak with them again?

PEND: In less than one hour.

AMIR: Then you will destroy the White House if they do not comply.

PEND: I will consider it.

AMIR: You will do it if they do not comply.

PEND: I WILL CONSIDER IT.

He hoped that typing in all capital letters would convince Amir that he was no longer willing to debate the topic. So far as he knew, the Crypt was under his command, and he wouldn't allow the influence of any other nation or group to usurp its control. So long as he was here – in the command center – there was nothing any military could do about it. He was sealed into a coffin well beneath the streets of Washington D.C., and no terrorist – here or aboard – would pose any threat to his sovereignty.

AMIR: Do not be too proud of what you have done.

The senator knew he was being threatened, and it was over. He would no longer allow himself to be manipulated by the Elders. He would no longer allow their influence. He wanted their willing participation in this attempt to create a New World Order ... but this? This was madness. This was no different that the current United States foreign policy, and he would have no part of this.

PEND: Contact me in one hour.

AMIR: The Elders do not take orders from you.

PEND: Then I am through with you.

He switched off the connection.

The sinking feeling he sensed in his heart told him that this was quickly spiraling out of any possibility of returning to a sense of normalcy ... not there was one to begin with.

END of Chapter 66


	67. Chapter 67

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 67

Five Days, Nine Hours, Five Minutes

Through the helicopter window, Frank Parker watched the small parade of vehicles pouring through the White House gates. Out in front of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, he noticed an even larger army of television vans and SUVs – all of the major news networks were easily represented with more than one vehicle each. Squinting, he made out the various broadcast spots set up – there must've been over three dozen individual sites – where on-the-scene reporters stood, breaking whatever news story had leaked to the public to the unsuspecting masses sitting at home in living rooms, in coffee shops, standing near company watercoolers across and around the entire globe. The skies had grown dark, and the clouds had slipped a soft rainfall onto the streets, but the water wasn't enough to scare reporters away. What was it that would survive a nuclear holocaust? 'Cockroachs,' Parker knew, 'and now reporters.'

With the flurry of activity, he guessed that the secret was out.

"That's not quite the welcome committee I would've hoped for," McGinty said from beside him, pointing down to the mob-like media scene.

"Freedom of the press," Parker quipped. "What's a sane man to do?"

* * *

Agents of the Secret Service opened the doors to the foyer, allowing Parker and McGinty entry.

Inside, the chrononaut immediately saw Dr. Mentnor, Bradley Talmadge, Channing Michelson, and Olga Vukavitch – the lovely doctor – standing near a mobile television set that had been placed in the room.

"Well," Michelson tried, taking a step toward the man lumbering with each step within the safety of the containment suit, "look what the cat helicoptered in!"

Smiling warmly, Parker replied, "Yeah, nice to see you, too ... buddy."

The two men glanced at one another. When they both realized that they were posturing at a time that couldn't have been worse, they chuckled and shook hands in as gentlemanly a fashion they could muster. Michelson quickly patted Parker on the shoulder, and Talmadge stepped up.

"I hear that the Mallathorn has decided to take his leave of us," he said.

"That's the story from the Pentagon," Parker answered. "You know how it is: you hang out on one planet long enough, and eventually the species bores you to tears."

"Frank ... please give me your word that this Larnod's untimely departure didn't have anything to do with you."

The chrononaut shrugged. "We talked and talked, Bradley, but who knows? Maybe I rubbed the little guy the wrong way."

"Frank?"

"Seriously," the younger man tried, holding up his hands, "I didn't have a thing to do with it ... well, other than arriving here in this timeline, that is."

"What does that mean?"

He relaxed where he stood a bit, trying to lessen the strain of the suit. "I think I'd better save the details until we're all together." Glancing around, he noticed a few absent friends. "Where did Ramsey go to? Did you finally realize he wasn't doing the program any good and lock him in a broom closet? And what about Donovan? I thought we were bringing him in on this mission."

Mentnor reached out and took the chrononaut by the arm. "They're trying to raise Nathan by satellite phone. Right now, he's riding shotgun in an F-15 bound for Alaska."

"Alaska?" Parker asked. "What's he doing in Alaska? Skiing? Or is he building the world's biggest snowman? That's probably more up his alley than skiing."

"You may find this a bit hard to believe," the scientist offered, "but Nathan will be playing the better part of diplomacy with some of his Soviet friends."

"Great," he remarked. "You know what that means, don't you? We'll all be getting hand-me-down bottles of vodka for Christmas this year."

Grinning, Mentnor added, "As for Craig, I believe he's a bit indisposed."

"I put Craig in charge of guarding a key witness," Talmadge explained. "He's at an NSA safehouse right now, but he'll be joining us by teleconference in the War Room."

"The War Room?" Parker asked.

"That's right."

Glancing about with a wry smile, he asked, "You don't mean to tell me that I get a backstage pass to the White House, do you?"

"I've already been there," Mentnor said dryly.

"Lots of lights and crap?" Parker asked.

"Once you've worked in time travel, I have to say that the War Room really isn't much to get all that excited about."

* * *

"Well, given the present circumstances, it's certainly good to see another friendly face!"

President Campbell greeted the BackStep Team at the elevator. Quickly, he ushered them into the War Room, offering Parker a warm handshake – one hand clasping the younger man's gloved palm, the other hand gripping Parker's elbow – and he escorted them through the gathered technicians, briefly commenting on the visual intelligent currently under review on the War Room monitors. Ahead of them, Chief Stoddard opened the glass door to the Conference Room, and they filtered in. The main viewscreen showed two images – one of the Vice-President and one of Craig Donovan – as the teleconference connection had been secured.

Raising his arm, Parker waved at the camera. "Hey, Craig!"

"Right back at you, Frank," the man replied. "I guess it's good to know that – regardless of how many versions of Frank Parker the universe might pawn off on us – there's still always one more ready to ride my coattails to success."

"Yeah, you keep that up, buddy," Parker teased him.

"Just trying to share the love, my friend."

"Before this mission is over, I guarantee I'll be dragging your sorry ass out of another sticky situation!"

"Gentlemen," Stoddard interrupted, trying to contain a playful smirk, "let's dispense with the usual male bonding, shall we? I think the fate of the free world takes precedence."

Parker took the chair at the end of the table while Talmadge sat on his right, Mentnor on his left. McGinty walked over and stood next to Chief Stoddard. Michelson and Olga took seats further down from the director, and the President stood facing the viewscreen.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Campbell began, "the purpose of this executive session is to as briefly as possible summarize the events of the past forty-eight hours in order for those of us tasked with making critical decisions regarding the future of our country and, quite possibly, our planet to do so with the best input available. I've asked the BackStep Team – under the direction of Bradley Talmadge – to provide a field update. In order to save us some time, we'll forego any formal introductions ... I'll ask the members of my Cabinet to accept my personal authorization for each and every member of the director's team to serve as executive privilege. Simply put, anyone here is here for a reason. Their clearance is above reproach in this and any related matters." Turning back to the table, he said, "With that single formality out of our way, I'm turning this meeting over to Director Talmadge. He'll bring us up to speed on where we are at this moment."

As quickly as possible, Talmadge summarized the events – Parker's arrival in their timeline, the Temporal Response Team's activities, their trip to Washington – by listing the salient points.

"Once we landed," he continued, "Colonel McGinty provided a complete rundown on the events in Alaska." With sincerity, he nodded at Campbell. "Mr. President, all of our sympathies go out to you and your family for the hardships you've had to endure these past two days."

Curtly, the President nodded his appreciation.

"The colonel also informed us that Mr. Parker was asked to provide the Mallathorn with a visit," Talmadge added, "and I think Frank can best update you as to what occurred at the Pentagon. Frank?"

The chrononaut leaned forward in his chair. "Thank you, Bradley." He glanced around at the faces, uncertain where to begin, uncertain as to what he could or should really add to the wealth of information ... and then he saw Olga's eyes. He thought he saw encouragement coming from her, and he sighed. "Well ... to be honest ... I'm not really much of a public speaker. I've always been more of a ... I don't know ... a field agent ... a grunt, no disrespect intended to any member of the armed services ... so I'll try to keep it straight and simple, if you don't mind?"

He paused to see if anyone protested. Hearing nothing, he continued.

"What Larry told me ... uh, ooops! Larnord. I'm sorry. I ... see ... I called him Larry. It was ... simpler." Nervously, he cleared his throat. "See, what Larry told me was that, while I'm clearly not from your timeline, he intended for me to come here as part of what I can only describe as a continuing education program."

"I beg your pardon?" the President interjected.

"Your timeline," Parker tried, knowing he might be stepping on more than one set of toes, "was never intended ... to exist."

"What does that mean ... exactly?" Stoddard asked.

Shrugging, the chrononaut glanced up at the expressions on the viewscreen. He saw only confusion in their faces, and he knew that he was the source. What must it feel like to hear that you were never supposed to be? He could only guess at how everyone felt.

"What it means is that your timeline is, apparently, very similar to my own," he pressed on, refusing to lose focus on the message he had to deliver, instead choosing to be the best messenger available. "There are events from your history that directly parallel those of my world ... and, because of these similarities, the Mallathorn constructed a scenario that would bring me here so that he ... his species ... could continue to teach me about time travel."

"I'm not following you, Frank," the President tried. "You mean ... me ... my Cabinet ... your friends ... none of us were supposed to exist?"

The chrononaut slowly shook his head. "Like I said, I'm a terrible speaker."

He rose from the chair. Walking about the room, he said, "You and your world were reordered by the Mallathorn for the purpose of teaching our species a lesson about the dangers and the potential of time travel."

"What do you mean ... reordered?" the Vice-President tried.

Stopping in his tracks, Parker turned to the room. "Look ... the next person who interrupts me gets a bonk on the side of the head ... got it?"

Everyone silenced.

"This isn't easy to say," Parker tried, sticking his hands on his waist and shaking his head. "I mean ... how do you tell the President ... how do you tell the entire world that it wasn't supposed to be?" He ignored his own feelings, he forced the rising guilt back into its emotional pocket, and he explained, "Think of it likes books on a shelf. That's the way Larry explained it to me. He found your timeline. He realized that it was destined for destruction based on the events ... these events that we're experiencing right now ... and his simply put the books in a different order. See what I mean? He re-ordered the books ... perhaps to give me more time to figure out whatever it was that he wanted me to know ... and then he pulled me and the Sphere across the fabric of time and space to ... to here." He pointed at the ground. "To now. I can't explain it any simpler than that ... and I'm sorry for how it sounds ... but it's what he told me ... you and your world ... they won't exist beyond these events."

The group remained silent. Several members of the Cabinet whispered to one another on the viewscreen, and Parker noticed it.

"Hey!" he cried.

The Secretary of Labor turned to glance out through the monitor. Her mouth dropped opened, she was clearly embarrassed.

"If you've got something to say," Parker ordered, "you say it to everyone."

"I was just wondering," she tried, "what it was that you told the Mallathorn?"

Slowly, the chrononaut nodded.

"I told him ... I told him he was full of bullshit."

The crowd suddenly grew into an audible murmur.

"Okay," Parker tried, "I didn't use those words exactly ... but what I said was I refused to believe that life could be ended this way."

"What do you mean, Frank?"

The man turned to the other half of the viewscreen where his friend, Craig Donovan, sat with an expression of bemusement on his face.

"I told Larry that I refused to believe that life could be ended so quickly, so callously," he said. "I told him that, if I could come here, then there had to be a way ... there has to be some way ... for me to avert that great a catastrophe."

"How can you be so sure?" the President tried.

"Because ..."

Michelson stood at the table after speaking his single word. He refused to remain silent any longer. He stood up, and everyone in the meeting turned their attention to him.

"Because that's what Frank does," he continued. He locked eyes with the other chrononaut – how could he have not seen it before, that knowing glint, that self-mocking understanding? He realized that the two of them were alike in more ways that their love for the same woman. They were colleagues. They were partners in time travel. They were – of everyone in this timeline, in this world, in this life – the only two souls who could claim the experience from leaping about in history. Granted, maybe it was only seven days, but, as he had learned, seven days could mean hundreds, thousands, or millions of lives. "He changes time. He changes events. He knows – much like I do – that history is written ... but only he and I have the ability to rewrite it."

"That's right," Parker agreed, nodding at the man. "The way I see it is that if the Mallathorn can make it ... then I can unmake it ... and that's what I'm about to do."

"You told it so?" the President asked.

"I did."

"And what did it say?"

"Larry said that I couldn't." Parker bobbed his head. "So ... I'll have to do it anyway, and prove to his species – once and for all – that I learned the lesson they sent me here to learn."

Again, everyone began whispering to one another, and Chief Stoddard quickly held up his hands.

"Let's stay focused here, people," he insisted. "Frank Parker is only the messenger. The President asked him here to tell us what he knew, and he's done so. There's much more that we still have to cover."

"The chief is right," Parker agreed after the group again grew silent. "All I can tell you is that the Mallathorn re-ordered these events. I don't know the events. I don't know if what happened yesterday was supposed to happen yesterday. I don't know if what's happened today is supposed to be happening. Hell, I can't even tell you what's around the corner ... but I can tell you that, so long as I can draw a breath, I'm here to do everything in my power to put things right."

Quickly, he turned and pointed at the other chrononaut. "Don't take my word for it! Take his! Channing Michelson's! You don't know me! I'm not from around here! He can tell you – as best as I can – that the way we do this – the way we make sense of traveling from one version of history to another is to look for similarities! We look for events that look like other events – ones we can remember – in order to figure out what comes next ... and, from what I can see, there's only one person – one single person – who's tying everything that has happened together ... so far as I can tell, there's only one person who's linking Point A to Point B ... and that's where we need to start."

Glancing over at Michelson, Parker asked, "Tell 'em who I'm talking about."

The younger man – much to his surprised – smiled.

"Senator Arthur Pendley," he said.

END of Chapter 67


	68. Chapter 68

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 68

Five Days, Eight Hours, Fifty Minutes

Disgusted, Pendley glanced down at the clock on his Blackberry.

Ten minutes.

Ten short, painful minutes.

Ten long, monumental, divisive minutes.

How long ago had this entire affair begun? Certainly, his crusade was far longer than two days old. In fact, one could make a reasonable argument that the last two days was only the culmination of a life filled with dreams of shaping the fate of a world, not only these United States. Arthur Pendley long imagined himself the steward of the planet. In fact, such a message had spoken volumes to his constituents. Such a dream had kept him at the top of a short list for a fruitful political life. Such vision had moved him from local office to national position. Such optimism had forced his nomination to key Senate committees. Such passion had awarded him the authority to make Kupher a reality. But – in the end – where was he now? Standing. In an exaggerated basement. Passing moments by watching the tick of a digital clock.

Ten minutes.

Ten horrible, devasting minutes.

His plan for peace had taken him around the world. He had met with the heads of states from, virtually, every 'civilized' country. England. France. Germany. Russia. China. Japan. North and South Korea. He knew all of their leaders by name, and he had spoken with them – under assurances of their confidentiality – of his hope for the future of their shared world. Of course, he couldn't tell them what he was doing in his private time. He couldn't utter a single word of what the funds diverted through the Black Budget was going to do to his dream, how this money would someday shape their planet, how he was going about achieving his own personal goals, but he hoped in his private moments that, were they to know, they'd agree. People always wanted to bring down the United States, after all. Even the United Nations felt the last remaining superpower needed to be done away with for reasons of parity ... but no country dared. Maybe no country would ever dare, but a single man with a vision could.

Ten minutes.

Ten agonizing, pacifying minutes.

With power – and Arthur Pendley truly believed he held power – there came women. He had met hundreds of them in his travels. His ten years in the military had taken him to many corners of the world – Special Forces only traveled into the most dangerous localities – and his thirty-five years of government service had opened many more other doors. With every nation, on every continent, there were always women willing to serve the powerful in oh, so wonderful ways. It was, indeed, the world's oldest profession, and Arthur Pendley had 'employed' many of them, so long as they served his needs with humility, with perfection. They were beautiful – the females of the species – and they came in all colors, shapes, sizes, and temperaments. He loved them all, and they – in turn – loved him. Would they share in his dream for a civilized tomorrow? Probably not. Women were revered as nurturers, regardless of the color of their skin, and they certainly wouldn't support a weapon of total annihilation without debate or regret ... but, now, they no longer mattered.

Belinda had taken her own life, after all, so he refused to let the thought of any woman distract him further from achieving his life's work.

This campaign was about him.

Yesterday was about him.

Tomorrow, ironically, would be about him.

Everything he wanted to share with her – why didn't he ever tell her? – would now be his and his alone, and there wasn't a single thing any man, woman, or child could do to stop him.

Ten minutes.

Ten final minutes.

He knew that, within ten minutes, he'd have to call another strike if the White House refused his demands. He imagined that the President and his Cabinet were probably locked away in committee, debating the political merits of what to do next, trying to choose between life under his direction or no life at all, and he couldn't imagine what would keep them surrendering to him. 'They had better back down,' he thought, 'they had better give in ... or I don't know what I'll have to do.'

Accessing a folder, he scrolled through the list of targets. He had planned for so long that the list had grown quite long, and he was no longer certain that sorting through what to strike next would be personally expedient, but then ... in the blink of an eye ... he saw it, and it only made perfect sense.

Chloe had warned him that, were she to suddenly vanish, were her efforts to be discovered and intercepted, he would receive the email, copied to him, that would be circulated to the members of the Washington press community. When he noticed it, when he opened it, he feared that she, too, had died ... but Chloe wouldn't be so weak, so fragile, as to take her own life. She was strong – immeasurably resolute in her conviction and commitment to him – and he guessed that she had been discovered, had been cornered, and had gone down fighting. Sadly, there was a part of him that hoped it was so. But ... with her death ... he knew that the next target – this next attack – would have to send a message that would underscore his potential to the entire world ... and, smiling to himself, he was quite certain this would corner the market for any news outlet for days, if not years, to come.

'That' would be next.

"Doctor?"

Watanabe glanced up from the monitor. "Yes, senator?"

"Doctor, please prepare these coordinates for attack."

Studiously, he rose and glanced on the small screen. Punching in the string of numbers into the targeting system, he suddenly realized where he would be striking next. Certainly – much like the last blast to the waters of the Persian Gulf – this target had little military significance. It was far more personal, far more insidious.

"Senator," he began softly, "you can't be serious."

The man nodded. "Have I bluffed yet?"

"Why would we want to strike at something so ... benign?" he tried.

"Each of us has our reasons, doctor."

"But ..."

"Those are my coordinates," he insisted, deactivating his Blackberry and returning it to his waist cradle. "Please make it ready for the next strike."

END of Chapter 68


	69. Chapter 69

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 69

Five Days, Eight Hours, Forty-Six Minutes

"You have to understand," Olga began, lifting her eyes from the wealth of classified materials spread out on the table in front of her, "that Richard DeMarco is hardly your garden variety terrorist. He's made an exceptional career out of committing some of the most vile, most vicious, most deadly deeds in the history of terrorism. He has done so, I might add, in a far considerably shorter period of time than his rivals." She pulled up a piece of paper and read from it. "Hassan al Durabi has been a subject of covert surveillance for ten years, due to his association with extreme militant groups, but his effectiveness has been seriously curtailed due to the fact that the U.S. has kept him above ground, we've kept him on our radar screens. As a result, he's virtually unheard of throughout the War on Terror. He's a non-entity. The White House recently termed him a 'negligible threat.'" She set aside the page she had been perusing and, instead, picked up a thick binder of statistics. "By contrast, DeMarco appears to have been successful in raising his performance. With each new campaign of terror, he tries to significantly outperform his last attack, and he has done so consistently. Granted, he did drop below our radar for the last few years, but it would appear that he accomplished this by disappearing. In fact, the CIA had him classified as 'missing in action' on their last three global threat matrix reports."

Stoddard had taken a chair at the head of the table, choosing to sit next to President Campbell. "Dr. Vukavitch, if what you're saying is true, then what is DeMarco doing out in so public a fashion today? In the last forty-eight hours, it would seem that he's betrayed every thought – every strategy – every tactic that forced him to drop off our radar in favor of ... what? Becoming a national figure once more?" He shook his head. "No. I've read everything that the Pentagon has provided – through the Joint Chiefs – on the current nature of terror. These men and women who perform these despicable acts? They don't do this out of some passing fancy to get quality face time on the news networks, despite what media pundits would have you believe. More and more, they're doing it simply because they want to show you, they want to show me, they want to show the average American that they can do these things." He leaned back. "When you strike terror into the President, you gamble that the military response may, in fact, wipe out your ability to deliver terror. However, when you strike terror into the heart of the average American, all of a sudden you're in a far more lucrative position to manipulate the minds of those folks. The average American doesn't want to live in a country where going to the grocery store might very well mean exposing your family to some biological agent. The average American doesn't want to live in a country where he sacrifices his freedoms for the sake of capturing a possible terrorist at some wayward airport checkpoint. As a result, it's the Americans who change their ways, and that only gives the terrorist more power."

"That argument is little more than academic posturing, chief," Mentnor chimed in. "There's no way for any person in this room to know what the response will be. We can only support the theories that we've chosen to believe ... for whatever the reasons. I think what Dr. Vukavitch is speaking about is DeMarco's sudden rise back to a position of prominence in the American intelligence community. That doesn't happen overnight, and certainly it doesn't happen quickly. As all of us know, nothing happens quickly in this town ... unless you've provided assistance that all of us have overlooked."

"How do you mean?" Campbell asked.

"Face the facts," Parker challenged. He was now seated at the table – once again resting between Talmadge and Mentnor. "Somehow, Richard DeMarco gained access to our country, despite the fact that he's on every security watchlist distributed to every airline that sponsors flights in and out of the United States. I think we need to start with how that happens ... and, unless I miss my guess, we're going to establish a link back to Senator Pendley."

"Well," Stoddard replied, "if that's all we're considering, then I can provide you with a relatively trouble-free scenario. The senator sits on one of the ranking Senate Intelligence Committees. Certainly, if we're considering any possible avenue for these two names to be linked, then there's the most glaring possibility. The Senate lists – once they are reviewed by the proper authorities and declassified – are released to the Department of Homeland Security as well as the Department of Transportation. Now, if DeMarco's name appeared on the HomSec watchlists but it didn't appear on the Senate Intelligence Committee, then it would stand to reason that the name might be removed until the threat could be more fully established." He shrugged. "The ACLU is breathing down our necks on this subject. It really wouldn't be that difficult to imagine a scenario wherein one was dropped for fear of controversy."

"Let's be clear about this," Talmadge interrupted. "Could Senator Pendley put out a demand to national security that ordered DeMarco's name be removed from any of our national watchlists?"

"Well ..."

Stoddard thought about his original answers before concluding, "It would stand to reason that, yes, the senator could strongly encourage any representative to remove Richard DeMarco's name from an alert list ... but my next question would have to be what was his intent by doing so?"

"There's a link," Mentnor explained. "That's all we're trying to establish."

"A link doesn't rise to the level of committing a provable offense, though, doctor," Stoddard countered. "There would have to be more to this than that."

Shuffling through her papers, Olga tried, "Chief, there's a wealth of evidence to support the contention of Pendley's vast travel throughout Europe, Asia, and some of the less-friendly parts of the Middle East. Who's to say that Pendley hadn't met DeMarco? Who's to say that the two haven't been operating under secrecy for a number of years? DeMarco's effectiveness as a terrorist is uncanny. One might say it's almost unreal. A reasonable person could conclude that DeMarco was receiving perfect intelligence from a Washington source in order to know which American interests to attack. His strikes have been swift ... so swift that local security was crippled to response in any substantive way. Isn't it safe to assume that someone within the Washington elite – perhaps Senator Pendley – could be DeMarco's contact? Can't we accept the proposition that Pendley has been providing DeMarco with the information necessary to achieve these results for the mutual gain?"

"That would take a bold leap ... one I certainly would not feel comfortable making unless there were more data to support such a connection." The chief shifted in his chair. "Right now, we're men and women sitting around in a closed room speculating on the nature of intelligence, on where it came from, on whose hands it passed through to quite possible get to DeMarco. Sure, he might be the most cunning bastard we've come up against in the War on Terror ... or he might be the benefactor of dumb luck. There's just no way to make a conclusion."

"We're not looking for conclusions, chief," Parker offered. "We're looking for connections. If we can find enough of the dots to connect them, the conclusion will be clear as day."

With a sniff of condescension, Stoddard replied, "That isn't how policy is reviewed and administered within these hallowed walls, Frank. That method may work for a single BackStep, but it isn't going to inspire other nations to follow us into what may be mankind's last stand."

"Then forget about those other countries."

"Forget about our alliances?"

"Until we know what it is we're fighting," Parker argued, "doesn't it stand to reason that we duke this one out old style? Fist to fist? Stand firm on our own ground. Let's get this guy – DeMarco – before anything he does impacts our need to re-evaluate foreign policy. That's the only way to win on our terms."

Stoddard shook his head. "Politics isn't always about winning."

"In the campaign season, it certainly is," Mentnor exclaimed. "It's about winning at all costs. Don't delude yourselves into thinking that people like Arthur Pendley or Richard DeMarco can be reasoned with, or you may find that there are more definitions for reason than you ever cared to dream."

Rising from his chair, the President held up his hands, signaling an end to all hostilities at the table.

"This much I understand," Campbell said, "so let's go with what we know. Pendley and DeMarco are linked. I'm quite certain that, once our intelligence comes through, we'll show the connection. Perhaps it will take the shape of intercepted letters. Perhaps it'll be nothing more than a few errant cellular telephone calls. In any event, DeMarco rode a plane from Paris to the United States, and, despite the fact that his name should have been on a 'no fly' list, he was allowed to fly. That means that someone – a ranking official within the United States government – allowed that to happen. For the sake of argument, let's assume that DeMarco's fairy godmother is Pendley. I can accept it for the purposes of debate because, in any moment, that sonuvabitch will be calling here wanting to know what I intend to do about turning over control of our government to him. Let's assume DeMarco and Pendley are working together. What I don't understand is ... why? Is DeMarco using Pendley, or is it vice versa? If they're cooperating, then they must be cooperating for a reason, and I'd like to know what that is."

"Sir?"

From her seat at the table, Olga Vukavitch sat with a raised hand.

"Yes, doctor?"

"It is only a theory," she began, "but I think it's entirely credible to believe that the senator and the terrorist have met before."

Campbell crossed his arms. "What makes you say that?"

Rifling through her papers, she brought out two sheets and set them in front of her, side-by-side.

"I wasn't quite certain of what to make of this earlier, when I first happened across it," she said, "but I think – if we're operating on the theory that these two men know one another – that we need to consider the facts." She placed a hand on one page. "Here, I have a listing of the senator's travel itinerary through the Middle East. On a recent proposal-for-peace tour, he visited Israel, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, and he met with several other state leaders at an undisclosed neutral location somewhere within Egypt." Next, she placed a hand on the second page. "Here, I have a listing of intelligence sightings linked to American operatives sighting – not confirmed – the presense of Richard DeMarco in those same countries. Now, you'll see that both men were allegedly in the same location on at least five occasions over a period of three months. One time? That would've been acceptable. Two times? That would've been a coincidence. Five times? Sir, I think we have to conclude that they're working together ... but I don't think it's safe to conclude that they believe that they're working on the same goal."

"What goal could DeMarco have, Olga?" Talmadge asked, interested in the discovery she had made.

"I don't know."

"What do you think, doctor?" the President pressed her further.

She shifted in her chair. "I know that we're not really interested in theories – at least, not at this point – but it would appear that we have very little hard intelligence to go on, sir."

"Then tell me your theory."

She stared at the small mountain of paperwork. Glancing to her right, she found Michelson's dark eyes, and she realized he was encouraging her to say whatever it was that was on her mind. She felt it her duty, both to herself and to the man she loved.

"Sir," she began, "I think there's the distinct possibility – however remote – that Richard DeMarco is Arthur Pendley's son."

END of Chapter 69


	70. Chapter 70

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 70

Five Days, Eight Hours, Forty Minutes

"The entire world must be joking with us," Ashley Reed muttered.

From her desk at the CVN News Washington Bureau Headquarters, she toggled several switches, jumping back and forth between the images flowing in from the countries bordering the Persian Gulf. First, she replayed the image of the rafting protestors outside the drilling rig – she studied the last few seconds of film over and over and over, trying to make sense of how a single wave could deliver them so far away from the platform – and, next, she kept rewinding the latest addition – delivered by their correspondent Nadia Arment as she stood on the shore outside of Al-Jubayl where the water level had receded over ten feet in the course of a few short minutes. It simply didn't make any sense ecologically. What could have happened? Where did the water go? Where could tens of thousands of gallons of gulf water have gone? How could it simply have vanished? Granted, an underwater nuclear test would've vaporized more than enough of the liquid, but wouldn't there have been a resulting cloud detected by cameras? Wouldn't there have been some evidence?

"Yes, you bet," she mumbled to herself. "The entire world is laughing at us."

She approved the footage for broadcast, emailing a quick message to her assistant to locate somewhere in the world an expert on nuclear testing who might be able to give greater credibility to any one of a number of theories floating around newsrooms and cyberspace everywhere. CVN was on the chopping block, so far as she was concerned, failing behind in the ratings race to Fox and – she couldn't believe it – CNN and – she believed it less – MSNBC. How could they have slipped so far? Clearly, their coverage of national and global events was timely, but, as the other networks had continued to build on their name brand and image, CVN had stuck with traditional reporting – they had bypassed the 'talking heads' approach to journalism in favor of reporting hard fats – and the end result was that viewers, in the last few months, were tuning the cable news station out. Sadly, most of the CVN anchors were news veterans from smaller markets – they didn't have a single household name on their payroll – and network sponsorship suffered. Their war coverage had won awards – multiple journalistic distinctions – but their ratings continued to plummet. She knew that, if something didn't stem the tide quickly, she'd be out of a job herself.

And now ... this.

Granted, CVN was the first out of the gate with the breaking news from the Gulf, and, terrific, the other news outlets had agreed to her quick, down, dirty negotiations to jump aboard their broadcast as an exclusive 'shared news event.' However, as the other networks were now turning to their staffers and their experts to dissect the events that may've led up to the news, CVN was left replaying footage. The experts worked elsewhere. While Fox News was running a series of graphics detailing the long-term effects of nuclear testing on waterlife, while CNN was airing a controversial interview with the former head of United Nations Nuclear Catastrophe Response Unit, CVN was simply replaying footage while the anchor asked simpleton questions to former military strategists. It wasn't exactly lightweight, but it wasn't going to win back viewers ... or advertisers.

But how do you define an event that, by all practical means, defies definition? How do you explain something that escapes any reasonable explanation? Ashley knew she was asking the same questions others in her position had been asking for years – possibly since professional journalism began – and CVN was paying her the big bucks to get to the bottom as quickly as human mind would allow her. Forgetting her two Emmys for excellence in news, forgetting the written accolades from industry heavyweights framed and hanging on her wall, she couldn't reach any other conclusion: exploit it.

"While you have it," she said, "exploit it."

CVN had the jump on the other networks for the first time in many years, in countless newsworthy events, and here she sat, waiting for inspiration to whack her on the side of her head when she should be going with her gut, putting out over the airwaves anything that would keep her viewers glued to those glowing television consoles in their homes.

"Exploit it."

If this was to be her swan song – if this was to be CVN's swan song – then she'd have to do everything in her power to see that it was a song worth singing, a song worth hearing over and over and over again. After all, it was the legacy that was remembered throughout the annals of history, not the ulcerations that led up to one. It was the destination, not the journey. It was the culmination, not the dream. Dreams never accomplished anything, she knew: it was hard, hard work that made a difference in the world, and this would have to be her crowning moment.

"Exploit it."

She looked at the protestors in the raft. She saw the utter confusion, the amused shock on their faces, and she knew that there was only one thing that might change that look.

Quickly, she picked up the telephone. She tapped a button and said, "Here's what I want. Type this directly into the teleprompter, and don't give Mayweather any time to object." She took a quick breath. "I want you to type that CVN has just learned from an unconfirmed source at the White House that officials at the Pentagon are investigating claims that the U.S. military may – I repeat, MAY – have some involvement in the events we're witnessing."

She closed her eyes. "Get it on the air now. Once it circulates through all of the news agencies, I guarantee that sound byte will get us ten million more viewers within the hour."

END of Chapter 70


	71. Chapter 71

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 71

Five Days, Eight Hours, Thirty-Eight Minutes

"According to records provided by the Central Intelligence Agency," Olga began, reading from the quick outline of events she had scribbled while she was reviewing the materials, "I show that Senator Pendley – in his early years of political service – spent a fair amount of time touring Saudi Arabia."

"Dr. Vukavitch," Stoddard tried, "you'll find that I'm not supporter of what the senator is subjecting this country to, but a great many Congressmen and women spend time in the Middle East. Israel, in fact, is one of America's oldest allies. I know many politicians who've spent as much time there as they have in Washington. There's nothing particularly uncommon about a press junket to that part of the world."

"Of course," she agreed, "but, as my research has shown me, a large portion of Pendley's campaign for public office was founded on his promise to establish a longer lasting peace to the countries of the Middle East. His family – they built their fortunes on the tobacco industry, but they were heavily invested in the oil business – had established some previous business relationships with the Saudi Royal Family, and the senator hoped he could use this leverage to his advantage. Travel records show that he spent several weeks in Riyadh, but, according to what was written at the time, he was unable to assure his contacts that the United States government would back him on what they viewed as a 'personal quest for the White House.'" She shrugged. "As we now know, the government didn't back the senator's position in shifting its allegiance from Israel to Saudi Arabia, and the senator was very outspoken on this topic. To be certain, it was the source of great political friction for Pendley. However, the CIA file does include information on some of the senator's more – er – romantic entanglements while he stayed in the country. One young woman he was quite taken with was Gada Nassif. Records exist which show that the Nassif family has a long history of businessmen. Many of their ancestors were scholars and public servants. Actually, there are records which show this reputation stretches all the way back to ancient times. However, as luck would have it, Gada fell out of favor with the Royal Family, but it's unclear as to why or how this happened. When her family's predecessors may've been heavily involved in influencing state policy, it appears that she was relegated to little more than a clerical in their Ministry of Business. Still, in the cultural evolution of Saudi Arabia, having a woman in this position was a tremendous step ... but it appears as Gada was demoted to this position not long after the senator left the country." She produced a piece of paper and slid it across the table. "This CIA report contends that the senator met Miss Nassif, and they began an affair that lasted for several years.

"Of course, this kind of behavior isn't exactly welcomed by other cultures," she continued, glancing through several additional files, trying to locate some more facts, "but Pendley's influence with her family and friends kept her safe for a number of years. Basically, Miss Nassif was allowed to live her life in seclusion, and she was never allowed to return to a position of prominence. There are some indications that she was, perhaps, used as a bargaining chip by several members of the Saudi Arabian government, but none of it has ever been substantiated. In fact, so far as the file indicates, she basically disappeared, popping up every now and then with a passing mention. It wasn't until two years ago – there was a covert operation to rescue a kidnapped American businessman from a rebel compound in Iraq – that she figures prominently."

"A rebel compound?" President Campbell asked. "You mean to say ... she was a terrorist?"

"To be frank, Mr. President," Olga replied, "we don't know. As even the War on Terror has shown, our intelligence gathering efforts over the last ten years hasn't been the effort we would have wanted it to be. Her involvement with any terrorist organization is very unclear. All that we do know is that she was there, and, as a result from a bullet wound to the chest, she died several weeks later." She stared up into the man's eyes. "However, some of the materials discovered recently about this compound showed that it was, in fact, a training spot for terrorists, and it now appears that Miss Nassif was held there for her protection."

"For her protection?" Glancing over at the chief, the President received little more than the shrug of shoulders. "Who was she hiding from?"

"Again, there is little evidence to show the specifics of her containment there," Olga explained. "But ... her file from the NSA states that it was believed she was being held against her will as a show of thanks on behalf of the Iraqi government to a chief terrorism trainer who is only identified by a code name: Efnisian."

"Wait a minute," Donovan interrupted from the viewscreen. "Olga ... did you just say ... Efnisian?"

"Yes."

"That's DeMarco!"

"What?" she asked. "Craig, I'm reading that from the NSA report ... how did you know that?"

"Because that's who Marty ... er ... I'm sorry ... let me explain this since not everyone present knows what I'm talking about."

Quickly, Donovan rattled off the events involving his initial investigation into DeMarco and the explosion that killed his good friend, Detective Martin Guerrero.

"Mr. Donovan," Chief Stoddard tried, "are you telling us that Chloe Vandemark shared with you the information the White House had been collecting on Richard DeMarco?"

He grimaced. "I don't know that there exists any legal precedent in trying someone as a traitor posthumously, so, yes, chief. That's what I'm saying. However, please keep in mind that I culled my information from a variety of sources. The NSA. What Chloe told me. What the CIA had declassified on DeMarco. It isn't as if she provided any vital clue, with all respect to the work you and your team are doing. She just added one more piece to the puzzle."

"Craig, what do you know about DeMarco's codename of Efnisian?" the President asked.

"It's from mythology, sir," he replied. "Celtic mythology, to be specific. I'm sure there's someone on your staff who can give you the long version, but the short version is that Efnisian was one bad apple. He destroyed his own nephew in order to purify his people's bloodline. He had his own unique vision for the world, and he allowed it to corrupt almost everything he did."

"So ... is it safe to say that we're dealing with an archetype for the world's first terrorist?"

"That's really a conclusion better drawn by analysts, sir," Donovan tried. "As I like to say, I'm a field agent, and I'm proud of it."

"As you can see, Mr. President," Olga announced, trying to bring the conversation back to her original assumption, "there exists a running theory that the senator fathered a child with Miss Nassif, and, if the Iraqi government was indeed protecting her in exchange for intellectual property provided by Efnisian, and, if what Mr. Donovan is telling is correct – that Richard DeMarco and Efnisian are the same person – then it's reasonable to conclude that DeMarco is, in fact, the senator's son."

"Good Lord," Campbell muttered. "Can you imagine what the press would make of this? A senator of Pendley's reputation being responsible for one of the world's most-wanted terrorists?"

"Mr. President?"

From his spot at the table, Isaac Mentnor waved a polite hand.

"Yes, doctor?"

"Sir, I believe I've noticed something here that may have evaded us until this point."

Everyone in the room focused their attention on him.

"Efnisian is, in fact, from Celtic mythology," Mentnor explained. "Mythology, I must admit, has always been one of my side interests, and I can attest for what Craig and Olga have explained. If Olga's conclusion about Mr. DeMarco's personal lineage is correct, then that road leads back to Senator Pendley. Also, as I can attest to from my own experience, one of your White House staffers – Miss Chloe Vandemark – also poses for us a road that leads back to the senator." He bit his lower lip before stating, "You'll pardon my noticing this, but the Basilisk, which we believe to have been destroyed by the senator's temporal weapon, is a word that also bears roots in mythology, does it not? Unless my memory fails me, I believe the basilisk was referred to in Greek mythology as 'the king of the serpents.'" Glancing around at the various faces, he asked, "Is there some other fact that ties Pendley to this submarine?"

"There is, doctor," Stoddard announced, clearing his throat. "Senator Pendley served on the Senate Intelligence Committee, and he is one of the few politicians who publicly supported development of such stealth technology."

"Then, sir," Mentnor tried softly, "wouldn't it be prudent for someone to begin a comprehensive review of the senator's other intelligence committee activities? It might – at the very least – shed some serious light on the specifics surrounding this temporal weapon."

Smiling, the President said, "That's a very good conclusion, doctor." Turning to the viewscreen, he added, "Get some of the staff at Glory Point to begin reviewing the records from the senator's service on the intelligence committee." He raised a finger, pointing at the group. "I want even the classified materials gone over in complete detail. If there's any shred of evidence – no matter how large or small – that can give us any insight as to the 'where' and 'how' of this weapon, I want it."

"Of course, Mr. President," the Vice-President agreed.

The intercom blinked, and Stoddard reached out to the comm relay.

"Yes?"

"Sir, we have Senator Pendley on the line."

"Speak of the devil."

Stoddard glanced over to the President. He nodded, and then the chief tapped the button.

"Hello, Arthur," Campbell announced.

"Good afternoon, Mr. President."

Before the senator could say anything further, the President peered down at his wristwatch. "Might I assume, given the timing of this call, that you're inquiring as to whether or not my official position to refuse you control of this government has changed?"

"Is has been two hours, sir," Pendley countered.

"My answer remains the same."

"I thought that would be your answer."

"Arthur," he tried, "you know as well as I do that no great nation has ever accomplished a single good deed by capitulating to terrorists. I haven't surrendered our interests abroad. I certainly don't intend to do it at home."

"For the time being?"

"For the time being," Campbell agreed.

"Then," the senator offered, "I would ask that you advise your staff to monitor every European news agency for the next ..."

"Arthur," the President interrupted firmly, "can't we agree to bring an end to this madness?"

"With all due respect, Mr. President, I don't feel the slightest responsibility for what you're inflicting on the world at large ..."

"You'll pardon the expression, but 'cut the crap,' Arthur," he shot. "You aren't talking to some inexperienced third world dictator who doesn't know his country from the holes you're creating in the ground."

"If you would just monitor the European news agencies, then you'll see entirely what I'm capable of, Mr. President ..."

"What you're capable of doesn't concern me, Arthur, but the fact that you're suffering from serious delusions of grandeur is alarming every member of the Cabinet ..."

"I'll not be insulted by the likes of you ..."

"Mr. President!" the aide shouted as he ran into the room through the conference room doors. Both of the doors banged loudly as they smacked into the wall. "Mr. President ... we're receiving satellite imagery right now!"

"What is it?" he asked quickly. Turning back to face the comm relay, the President ordered, "Arthur, tell me what it is you've done!"

"It's the Vatican, sir!" the aide exclaimed.

"What about it?"

"It's ... the building and the surrounding structure, sir ... they're gone!"

The room fell into a shocked silence.

Slowly, Olga Vukavitch slid her hand away from the disheveled paperwork, across the table, and onto Michelson's arm. He reached up and took her fingers in his, and he felt as she gripped him lightly.

"Oh, no," she whispered.

"In two hours," Pendley said via the relay, "I will strike again. Another target will be destroyed, erased from history, and you – each of you there providing counsel to this man you serve so blindly – will only know more and more guilt as you continue to support his useless policy of delaying the inevitable."

"Arthur," Campbell stated, "if you have truly done this ... then you are mad."

"Good day, Mr. President."

END of Chapter 71


	72. Chapter 72

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 72

Five Days, Eight Hours, Twenty Minutes

His head spinning angrily from a growing vertigo, Nathan Ramsey sank into the seat as the F-15 taxied across the runway, rolling almost effortlessly under the shadow of the hangar ceiling. His body aching, he felt every modest bump in the roadway. Thankfully, along with the hanger's shadow, the intense sunlight of the Alaskan sky disappeared, and he closed his eyes to the welcome darkness. He had tried to sleep during the flight, but, after several fitful attempts, he gave it up in favor of watching the blur of clouds. Finally, the pilot had announced over the headset that they'd be descending, and he had a few moments rest from the frenetic activity the last forty-eight hours had dropped onto his shoulders. It wasn't enough to soothe his weary bones, and he knew there would be a price to pay later for it.

'Just think,' he told himself, 'you were contemplating retirement a few weeks ago after Bradley told you he had no intention of ever leaving the BackStep Program ... now, here you are, in a jet, in Alaska, with the worst sour stomach possible ... what a difference a twenty days can make!'

He reached up and unbuckled the helmet by its mouthplate. Throwing his head to one side, he unexpectedly delivered another swirling headache unto himself. He felt his throat grow warm, his nostrils flare slightly, his mouth was suddenly damp, and then Nathan Ramsey did the only human thing possible given the violent sensations wracking his body ...

He threw up in his helmet.

"I hope that's not a reflection on my flying, chief," the pilot said over his shoulder.

"Don't take it personal," Ramsey replied.

The aircraft pulled to a stop, and the pilot triggered the canopy. It lifted slowly, and Ramsey began the daunting task of unbuckling himself from the passenger seat. As he threw the straps aside and stood up, he felt the strength in his knees weaken. He caught himself on the rails, not wanting to appear too old for this sort of adventure, and he took a deep breath.

"Chief Ramsey!"

Squinting, he glanced into the dark hangar, and he made out the decidedly female shape emerging from his murky field of vision. As she approached, her features grew more distinct, and he guessed she was the only possible person in Alaska who knew he was coming.

"Please tell me that you're General Nash?" he asked.

"How was your flight?"

Quickly, an aide attached a ladder to the aircraft, and Ramsey nodded his thanks.

"I'll let you know if an hour," he told the general. "By then, my stomach should arrive. I think I left it somewhere over Montana."

She laughed, and her laughter sounded much younger than he guessed her to be. Still, he found her a fit, attractive woman, and he climbed down – with concentrated effort to hold tight to each and every rung – to the hangar floor.

"Well, sir, I'm afraid that I have good news, and I have bad news," she announced, gesturing quickly in the direction she had come.

Taking up step beside her, he inconspicuously wiped his mouth and replied, "Well, given the way this whole affair has gone, why don't we start with the good news? Right now, I'll listen to anything good you have to say, general."

"Via satellite images, I believe we've located Trace Hightower and the other sole surviving member of his team," she explained, slowing the pace of their march a bit once she realized that Ramsey wasn't keeping up. "We have a lock on his position. By air, it's only about ten minutes away. The birds you ordered from our Soviet friends have been refueled, and they're ready. General Ivanov is waiting for you."

In his vision, the room started to spin slightly. Ramsey stopped and shook his head hard.

"Chief?"

"I'll be all right," he said.

"You don't look it."

He smiled weakly. "You'll have to take my word for it."

"I'd rather have you see our base physician."

"When I get back."

She shrugged. "It's your health, sir."

"If that's the good news," he tried, "then I'm not sure I want to hear the bad."

She cleared her throat. "Not only have we found Trace Hightower," she said, "but also I think it's safe to assume so has that Apache Longbow."

Outside, the bitter wind to his face helped shake Ramsey from his stupor.

Snow was in the air, blowing incessantly thanks to the whirling blades of three Soviet helicopters. Glancing out through the storm, Ramsey recognized two of them – arguably, the greatest military helicopter built, the Mi-8 Hip – and he felt elated. Yuri had chosen wisely. The Mi-8 was as renowned as the American Bell UH-1 Huey. The massive craft had two engines, a five-blade main rotor, and could be used to ferry troops into combat ... if necessary. As he couldn't guess what would be needed, Ramsey was glad to have the ability to take troops along in order to secure the President's son-in-law.

"General," he shouted over the roar, "have you loaded those choppers with your best men?"

"They're already onboard!" she cried back at him. "Ivanov has brought a few of his own recruits, but I've asked him to deploy them only in the event of emergency!"

Just beyond the two principle copters, he thought saw ...

It was ...

... he couldn't believe his eyes.

"Is that a Havoc?"

Ramsey knew that the parked Mi-28 Havoc attack helicopter was a two-seater bird designed for nothing short of pure aerial support. Like the Apache, the craft was deadly in the air, heavily fortified with both state-of-the-art machine guns and rockets.

"I hope you have a strong stomach, comrade!"

Ramsey stopped in his tracks as he felt two hands slap him hard on the back. Swallowing, he held down what was left in his stomach, and he turned around to face ...

"Yuri!"

"Hello, Nathan!"

Yuvi Ivanov smiled proudly, and Ramsey studied the man's face. He had grown a beard, and the salt-and-pepper effect of gray hair mixed with the Ivanov's black whiskers was pronounced if not profound. The chief noticed a few more lines on the man's aged face than he remembered from their last meeting, and he hoped those marks were from laughter and not the stress of maintaining what little he could of a military presence for a country ripping apart politically and socially at the seams. Ivanov wasn't exactly a hardcore Stalinist – who was in this day and age – but he was a strong believer in his country. He continued to serve what was left of their military in hopes that, one day, his efforts would be noticed and rewarded. Ramsey knew all the man wanted was a retirement to a cushy position of top advisory, but political futures were dark in what was left of the former Soviet Union. At this juncture, Ivanov had to settle for being content in being left alone. The new regime was clearing the way for fresh leadership, and older, tested, more experienced heads of the military were quickly being mothballed. Somehow – to the good fortune of the United States – Ivanov had escaped the ax, and he was here today – with harsh blessings of his government – to provide the necessary assistance.

"What's that you said about my stomach?" Ramsey barked.

"I said ... I hope you have a strong one!"

"It's fairly empty right now, Yuri!"

"Will it be all right ... should we see combat?"

"I'll let you know," he snapped, "once it catches up with me!"

"There!" the man announced with obvious pride. Tugging on the American's arm, he practically dragged him in the direction of the attack craft. "You will ride in there! The Havoc has only two seats ... but do not worry! If this goes well, we will not be out in this cold for very long ... and you'll be flying with the best pilot I could find!"

"Oh, really?" Ramsey chided the man. "And what kind of proof do I have to that?"

"Svetlana is my daughter!"

END of Chapter 72


	73. Chapter 73

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 73

Five Days, Eight Hours, Twenty Minutes

Before Frank Parker knew what was happened, the Conference Room was alive with activity. He sat perfectly still, under the weight of the containment suit, and watched as the drama unfolded.

"Mr. President, we have the U.S. Embassy in Italy on the line!"

"We're going to have to lock down the entire White House in order to keep the press out!"

"We can't do that! They'll have a field day that this administration can afford!"

"Mr. President, we have the Prime Minister holding for you!"

He lowered his eyes from all of the diversions and tried to concentrate on … on … what was there? All he could think about was the chaos. He knew that, if what Larnord had told him were true, then this timeline was destined to be destroyed. These events – one after the other – would lead to total annihilation, and it was for the expressed purposes of teaching him – a solitary man, a lowly chrononaut – a lesson about time travel. Good? Bad? He didn't know. He couldn't even guess any more. What was there to focus on? How could he stop it? Could it be stopped by anyone? His head hurt as he tried to force the alternatives into focus.

"Mr. President, the White House switchboard just lit up like a Christmas tree!"

"Director Talmadge, is there any possibility that another backstep could be used to put this right?"

"Shouldn't we get Channing Michelson on the next flight to Nevada?"

No, he told himself. There had to be something … there had to be some piece of information … some shred of truth … that he could cling to … that he could find … once he had it, he knew that he would be able to force these events into some recognizable fashion … into some possible strategy … but how? Larnord had re-ordered the events, meaning that there was no possible way for him to make any sense out of the timeline. In a linear sense, C should follow B which comes after A … but Parker couldn't even begin to assume that C was in its proper perspective, and he refused to begin placing events into any kind of temporal continuum. He wasn't smart enough for that. All he knew was that these events – in an odd kind of cause and effect – were his responsibility. If he hadn't caused them, then he felt responsible for stopping them. But how?

"I don't think a backstep is a viable option at this point."

"Would it be more prudent to issue some kind of statement to the press?"

"Mr. President, I have the Chinese government holding for you on Line 2."

Stop it, he ordered himself. You have to stop all of this, and the only thing you know is why you were taking the original backstep in the first place. Don't deal with things you can't control, you can't change, you can't predict. Deal with what you know.

Parker lifted his eyes slightly. He saw Olga Vukavitch's uneven stack of intelligence – the pictures, the dossiers, the fact sheets – and he imagined that this world's timeline was much the same: a lazy, disorderly, unattended mass of happenings – all related – but none in the correct sequence. He scanned them, reading the blips and blurbs of information that he could make out, admiring the vast colors populating intelligence reports, studying the faces of the various men, women, and children frozen in expression on the dozens of photographs …

There.

He saw it.

Rising slowly, he leaned forward and shuffled the materials aside, leaving one photograph in the center of the chaotic mess.

"Mr. Parker?" Olga tried. "What is it?"

He stared down at the photo, his eyes locked onto it as though the puzzle had seemingly come into perfect focus.

"This isn't about order," Parker mumbled over the chorus of voices all posturing for a strategy. "This is about disorder."

"What?" Talmadge asked, rising. "Frank … what is it?"

The chrononaut stared into the eyes of the man in the photograph staring back at him.

It was only a picture, but Parker guessed that the man was challenging him in that stare, challenging him to make sense of the illogical, to learn the answer to the riddle that no one and everyone was afraid to ask, to bring what sense of order was left to the immeasurable chaos.

Everyone in the room had grown quiet, all of them turning to see what was transpiring at the end of the table.

Carefully, Parker reached out and took the glossy between his fingers. Holding it up, showing it to Campbell, he demanded, "Mr. President … do you know who this man is?"

Slowly, the highest elected official of the United States stepped closer to the picture. As he neared, his expression changed slightly from one of disgust to one of confusion.

"Yes, I do, Frank."

"Mr. President … we need to speak in private."

With studied effort, the man nodded. "Yes, we do."

From the viewscreen, the Vice-President called out, "What is it? What's happened? What's going on?"

Turning to the group, Campbell announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm turning the War Room over the Ethan for the time being as I'll be needed in conference."

"What?"

"Travis," the President continued, unabated by the confusion he had created, "I understand that this conference room has blast shielding. Please have that readied. I'm going to ask that you seal myself, Mr. Parker, Director Talmadge, and Mr. Michelson into a closed conference. Please have armed agents of the Secret Service prepared to stand guard at the doors. They're not to be opened until I give the order."

"Mr. President, what is this?" Stoddard tried weakly. "What's going on?"

Campbell placed a hand on his chief of staff's shoulder. "Ethan, so far as the White House is concerned, you'll be coordinating our efforts with the Press Corps. Please have them assembled. I'll be making a statement to the American people once I've had the chance to confer with Mr. Parker on this matter."

"But, Mr. President …"

"Just get the troops assembled, Ethan," Campbell insisted. "That's all I'm asking you to do for now. Everything else … everything else depends upon what sense Mr. Parker, Mr. Michelson, and Mr. Talmadge and I can make of this entire affair."

"What if the senator calls?"

"You tell me that his President is indisposed," the man argued. "I'll deal with him soon enough, but … right now … there are other matters that need my attention."

"Mr. President," the VP interrupted, "with all due respect …"

"Glory Point will go dark," the President said quickly. "I ask only that you understand the fact that I am issuing you a specific order: you will communicate with no one – outside of Chief Stoddard – until you hear further from me."

"Mr. President, you can't just leave us here."

"Oh, yes, I can," he countered, "and, until I decide otherwise, you will remain there in secrecy in order to guarantee that if Pendley – if this madman – strikes the White House, then there will be surviving members of this Administration to carry on in my absence." He paused, hoping that each man and woman in seclusion understood what he was asking of them. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

Turning, Campbell walked over to the colonel. "Travis, I need you to go to the Oval Office. In the safe behind my desk, you're going to find several vials of Chroniticin. I've been inoculated, but I need you to bring two vials – one for Mr. Michelson and one for Director Talmadge."

"Sir?"

"Travis, Frank Parker has some information that we're going to need to discuss," he explained. With a smile, he added, "We've already inconvenienced Mr. Parker enough by requiring him to wear that containment suit. For what we're about to discuss … for what we're about to quite possibly prepare to do … I want him to be as comfortable as possible."

Slowly, the colonel agreed. "Yes, Mr. President."

Certain he had said everything necessary, Campbell turned back to the larger group. "That is all, ladies and gentlemen," he announced. "You'll be hearing from me again after I've concluded this chat."

Leaning closer, Bradley Talmadge reached out and took Parker by the arm.

"Frank, what's going on?"

With some assurance, the chrononaut said, "I believe I have an answer to what's happened."

"What do I have to do with any of this?" Michelson asked.

"You?" Parker sat back down in his chair. "Channing … there isn't another person on the face of this planet who understands what I do. You jump backwards in time. So do I." With a smirk, he added, "If there's anyone who can help me make sense of what it is I believe has happened, it's you."

"But …?"

"Just relax, buddy," Parker told him. "You're in this for the long haul."

END of Chapter 73


	74. Chapter 74

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 74

Five Days, Eight Hours, Twelve Minutes

Lifting his head slightly against the cold wind, Secret Service Agent Nolan Murphy stopped running. He angled his eyes toward the horizon, reaching up with a hand to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and he studied the horizon.

Not looking, Trace Hightower ran into his government bodyguard, but Murphy's strong legs – despite their protests – held them up. They had been running – pounding their feet across the frozen plains – for better than eight hours now, slowing down only when one or the other grew winded from the workout. They had spent a few hours' fitful sleep in a makeshift cavern they had fashioned in the snow, and, when they awoke, they felt rejuvenated. They knew they'd make Zulu Base today – so long as they didn't cramp up once too often – and they knew they'd feel the warmth of the barracks and a good meal in their stomachs. They'd call the White House and assure the President that they were all right. They'd call their respective families, convince them that any news reports of their deaths or injuries were greatly exaggerated, and then they'd sleep in warm beds in the comfort and safety of the United States military.

"What?" Hightower asked, quickly righting himself in the snow. "What is it?"

"Quiet, sir."

"What is it?" he pressed.

"Sir …"

Then, he heard it, too … the convulsive whoop-whoop-whoop of helicopter blades slicing the air. From the sound of it, the craft wasn't too far away, and it was on approach.

Elated, Hightower screamed, "Thank God!"

"Sir, please."

Murphy stuck his ear to the wind and closed his eyes.

"What's the matter with you?" the younger man asked, reaching out and patting the agent hard on the back. "You can't tell me that that sound – that sweet, sweet sound – isn't the best thing you've ever heard? Come on, Murphy! We're being rescued!"

Slowly, the agent shook his head. "We don't know that yet."

"What?" Hightower turned his eyes toward the white mesa, squinting at the cloudy-filled sky, hoping for a glimpse of the craft. "What makes you say that?"

Quickly, the elder man pulled his Glock from under his jacket. Pulling back the slide, he chambered a round.

"Mr. Hightower," he began, "whatever hit the ground near us resembled an atomic blast. I don't know that it was radioactive, but within a matter of minutes all of our mobile technology was rendered useless. Your GPS unit. My satellite phone. Both of our cell phones. The circuits were fried as if they had been struck by an electromagnetic pulse."

"So?"

Murphy thought the thunder from the helicopter had abruptly changed directions. He guessed that the sound was echoing across the open frontier, and he couldn't be absolutely certain which direction the craft would be coming from. He scanned the horizon, looking for the hail of snow that would be thrown into the air in the chopper's wake, but he couldn't yet identify one.

"So it's very likely that the effect would've corrupted all of the circuits at Zulu Base as well," he explained. "Given that likelihood, I think it's a safe guess that this helicopter isn't one of General Nash's."

The young man leaned down, clutching his gloved hands on his knees. He took a few deep chilled breaths before he offered, "Then it only makes sense that, once they declared the area clean of radiation, the President would have them send a rescue helicopter from Anchorage … or somewhere else … doesn't it?"

"It does, yes, but …"

"But what?"

"But I'd rather play it safe."

There.

On the horizon to his left, Murphy saw the wisps of white fluff suddenly thrown against the clouds. There was a flickering of light – the blades slicing into the pale light – and he knew they were about to be 'intercepted.'

"Get down, sir."

"But, Murphy …"

"I SAID GET DOWN!"

Forcefully, the agent slapped his hand onto the young adventurer's shoulder, and he pushed him down hard into the snow.

"Stay behind me! Stay behind me!"

Before he turned back, Murphy heard the roar of the chopper as it soared over the horizon. He spun back, lifting his pistol up to his sights, and he aimed at the black craft. He watched as it dropped its nose a bit – clearly, the pilot had seen the two of them. The copter banked slightly to the right and flew over their heads, the agent following the aircraft's course with the muzzle. Staying focused, Murphy shifted on his feet to place himself between the President' son-in-law and the helicopter. He kept his arm extended, his Glock aimed at the chopper, as it slowly descended, blowing up more snow in its wake, and it set down on the ground.

"Mr. Hightower, I want to stay behind me at all times!" he exclaimed over the rattle. "Stay down on the ground, and stay behind me!"

The agent glanced down quickly. He watched as the young man nodded, a grim expression now on his face …

… and then Murphy saw the second and third helicopter fly over the nearby ridge.

"Sonuvabitch," he muttered.

Glancing up from his spot on the ground, Hightower yelled, "What is it?"

"Nothing," Murphy hollered back. "I just sure hope to hell that these fellows are on our side."

Turning back to the first chopper, he watched as the side hatch swung open and a single man wearing dark fatigues climbed from the cockpit to the ground. Shielding his eyes, the man quickly trotted in their direction, and Murphy watched as the man's thin hair shuffled about in the gale from the copter's blades. He approached, and, to the agent's delight, the man raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

"At ease, soldier," Ramsey cried out over the rolling mechanical thunder. "My name is Nathan Ramsey. I'm with the NSA. The President sent me here to rescue you."

Murphy locked his eyes on the man. "If you're with the United States … if you're here on order of the President … then what's the call sign for this trip?"

Slowly, the older man nodded. "Snake eyes."

The agent breathed, his breath a thick white streak in the space before him. He lowered his gun.

Quickly, Ramsey turned back to the helicopter, and he flashed a gesture – he drew a line across his throat – back at the pilot, instructing for the craft to power down.

"Now, can I officially say … Thank God?" Hightower asked, rising up to his knees.

"You bet your red, white, and blue stripes you can, son," he said.

Reaching out, he helped the man to his feet. "You must be Trace Hightower."

"Thank you, Mr. Ramsey."

"Just remember to thank your father-in-law, son."

"He's next on my list."

"He'll be relieved to hear that you're looking none the worse for wear." Nodding at the Secret Service agent, he added, "You, too … mister?"

"Nolan Murphy," the guard replied.

Nodding back toward his aircraft, Ramsey explained, "All right, the introductions are over. We should get the hell out of here while the getting's good."

"What do you mean?" Murphy asked.

The director lifted his head up and scanned the sky.

"Mr. Ramsey … what is it?"

"To tell you the truth, I don't understand it," he said. "There's supposed to be an unfriendly in the area. Some kind of top secret attack aircraft. A helicopter."

"But … not one of yours?"

"No, I'm with some Russians." Ramsey realized that his reply probably didn't make much sense to the two men.

"Russians?" Hightower asked.

"Yes, but don't worry. They're friends of mine."

"Can't you pick up the aircraft on your chopper's radar?" Murphy tried.

Slowly, the man shook his head. "My best guess is that it must be some kind of stealth." He planted his hands firmly on his waist, pivoting his body as far as he could to study the skies, but he found no signs of the enemy. "Well, I can only guess it had some kind of stealth technology. I don't know much about it … except that we had every reason to believe that it was coming here to finish the job on you and Mr. Hightower."

"Me?" Hightower asked. "But why?"

"It's a really long story," the director explained. "As short as I can make it, we've been without satellite capability for some time. The only tactical information we could get on what happened up here – that blast – came from a variety of secondary sources, none of which we believed were one hundred percent accurate or reliable." He shrugged. "I'm just glad that the two of you are all right." Grimacing, he offered, "You're absolutely certain that you haven't seen any sign of it? The other helicopter?"

Murphy shook his head.

"It should have beat us to the punch," the director muttered.

Slowly, Ramsey brought his hand up and covered his mouth. The two men watched as he opened his eyes wide.

"Oh, no," he mumbled.

Turning, he started back toward the Havoc.

"Sonuvabitch," he swore. Then, he shouted, "Sonuvabitch!"

Instinctively, Murphy grabbed Hightower and pulled him in step behind their rescuer.

"Ramsey, what is it?"

Ignoring them, the man pulled a radio from his belt. "Yuri, do you copy?"

The other helicopters were circling now, slowly creating an aerial defense perimeter.

"Go ahead, Nathan," the voice barked through the static.

"Yuri, set 'em down."

"What?"

"I repeat: set those craft down." Continuing toward the Havoc, Ramsey twirled around as he walked, studying the skies for any sign of their enemy. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" he exclaimed. Shaking his head, he shouted into the radio, "If you have them, I want temporary structures – tents, igloos, I don't give a damn if it's an outhouse – I want 'em up and operational as soon as your men can make it happen. Whatever you have, we might need them. Also, let's offload any heavy artillery that we might need to use for a temporary base of operations. Surface-to-air stuff. Missiles, if you have 'em. That bird may show its ugly feathers yet, and, if it does, who knows? We might only get one shot at the thing, but we're going to have to make it count."

"Copy that, Nathan."

"Also, I'm going to need to use your equipment to get a call in to Washington," he continued. "If the big boys have any information on what may have happened here, then I'm going to have to get it. Your daughter's a helluva pilot. Once you're down, let's have her run a quick recon over Zulu. I don't want her breaking the strike zone. We don't know what we'll find back there, and I'm not about to ask you to risk the life of your own flesh and blood. I'd do it myself, but I can't fly this Havoc of yours. Also, if you've any favors left in the fallen Soviet guard, you might want to call them in. Get us the straight skinny on what your satellites are picking up in a fifty mile sweep of our coordinates."

"Really? That would be spying, comrade."

"Don't comrade me, you old Russkie," the director chided his friend. "You and your crew might need a longer visitor's pass than I expected, and I'm the only one who can make that happen."

"Mr. Ramsey!" Murphy shouted. "What is it? What's going on?"

The director stopped. He fixed his eyes on the sky. Resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to find what he was looking for, he finally explained, "Agent Murphy, I don't think that helicopter was coming after you and Mr. Hightower at all, but that's what we were supposed to believe, and all of us – including the President – did. We bought it hook, line, and sinker. No offense, boys, but the two of you were just a planned distraction to keep the eyes in Washington looking slightly in the wrong direction. You were part of a much bigger plan. The question is … what?"

"That doesn't make sense."

"Terrorism rarely does, agent," Ramsey announced. "Don't get me wrong: that bird was bound for Alaska all along. You don't fly a top secret attack craft cross-country for no reason. Of that, there isn't a doubt in my mind." He brushed a quick hand over his face, wiping the chill that had gathered from his skin. "I think it was headed for Zulu Base … and what I need to know is why."

END of Chapter 74


	75. Chapter 75

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 75

Five Days, Eight Hours, Two Minutes

Parker watched as the blast shielding lowered over the glass separating the White House conference room from the War Room. Beyond it, he saw the concerned faces of Olga Vukavitch and Isaac Mentnor and Chief of Staff Ethan Stoddard. He wondered what it was each of them cared about in this room. Was it the President? Was it the events that were about to be discussed … the possible secrets revealed? Was it concern for Bradley Talmadge and Channing Michelson? Was he in any of their thoughts? He wanted to believe that he was despite the fact that he didn't belong here, in this time, in this room, in this universe. The whole business of time travel had somehow turned upside down and inside out. The clocks were ticking instead of tocking, tocking instead of ticking, and now here he sat – a stranger in an even stranger land – with perhaps one of the biggest pieces of the temporal puzzle – bigger than he could've or would've possibly imagined – but that was always the gamble. It was always about risk. He knew that each person looking into the slowly sealing conference room cared for something entirely different. He hoped that someone – he didn't care who – said a silent prayer for him.

The metal plates clanked shut, and he heard the hiss of compressed air flooding into the contained room.

"Gentlemen," President Campbell began. He walked away from the doors and stepped up to the table. Before him, there was a small leather case. Reaching down, he unzipped the parcel and opened it, laying it flat on the wooden surface. Inside, Parker saw several long syringes, each filled with a glowing, shimmering liquid.

"Is that what I think it is?" the chrononaut asked.

"Chroniticin," the President explained. "In the interests of national security, we keep an ample supply here at the White House." Carefully, he reached down and plucked two syringes free from their retainers. "You have to understand: I've already been inoculated. With several of the temporal events that have occurred in our universe, Frank, the Cabinet insisted that I be given immunity. I think they were afraid that someone – either an alternate version of yourself or some other time travel – would accidentally infect me with temporal radiation. I never believed it could happen, but … you know Cabinets? They tend to play watchdogs when the commander-in-chief is concerned."

He gripped the first vial in his palm and walked over to Talmadge. "Director, if you'd be so kind as to remove your jacket?"

"Of course, Mr. President."

Promptly, he stood and slipped his coat off. Rolling up his sleeves, he smiled. "I'll bet this takes you back to your days in the military, sir."

Campbell smiled. "I was never truly gifted as a field medic, so I won't promise that this won't hurt a bit."

"Understood, sir."

The President carefully dipped the needle into the director's elbow, and he slowly pushed the plunger down. "I understand you'll experience a warm, tingling sensation. That's what I recall anyway. You might feel lightheaded, but it's nothing to cause alarm. It should pass in a few moments. With this current version of the serum, the positive effect – protecting you from any undue harm – only take a few minutes."

"Thank you, sir."

The man smiled. After inoculating Michelson, he returned to the head of the table, replaced the empty vials in the case, and sealed it. Relieved, he sat back in the high leather chair, and he studied the curious expression on Frank Parker's face.

"Frank," he began, "have you ever experience a backstep like this one?"

Smirking, the chrononaut replied, "Mr. President, I've seen some very strange stuff. I've crossed over into parallel worlds, if that's what you mean. But … I'd have to say 'no.' I've never quite seen anything like this." He shrugged. "I guess if you say that time travel is a contest, then this would sure as hell be the booby prize."

All of the men gathered around the table chuckled.

"Not that it's of any real consequence," the statesman tried, "but have I been President in each of the worlds you've encountered?"

"I'm sorry, sir," Parker offered, "but I never kiss and tell."

They laughed again, and Parker was glad to finally be at ease. He knew that the circumstances facing this man were dire, but he was impressed that – even in the midst of what appeared to be an insurmountable crisis – the man still found the courage to laugh.

"You know," Campbell said, "so long as this doesn't leave this room … I'll safely admit that I've never been one in support of these time trips you've made, Frank. Or yours either, Channing."

The two chrononauts glanced at one another. Parker thought he saw an expression of guilt in the younger man's face, but he couldn't be certain.

"Well," Channing tried, "I think I speak for Frank, Mr. President, when I say that we'd love to live in a world where Backsteps weren't necessary."

"Oh, it's not that," Campbell countered. "Let me explain. I'm all in support of a strong national defense. Unfortunatley, when you're dealing with acts of terror or even random acts of … well … God … Fate … whatever you choose to believe in … I've always supported putting right what we believe went so horribly wrong. That has never been in question. But … like the Mallathorn … I've always put the long term effects under great scrutiny."

"Sir?" Talmadge asked.

"You know," the man continued. "What about … what about if the event we're altering … this catastrophe … what if were truly meant to happen? What if it were an absolutely essential event tied to the development of our people, our culture, our world? Could it be that something we've found wrong – by a limited definition – was actually good for the planet?"

Parker raised an eyebrow. "Wouldn't we know?"

Campbell relaxed in his chair. "That's the central conceit, I guess, Frank. We think we know. It's one of the responsibilities about occupying the Oval Office. I'm taxed – as those are in my employ – to make decisions that alter the fate of our nation, and we presume those decisions to always be for the good of our government, our people, our way of life. But suppose … suppose, for example, that a Backstep were used to minimize Frank's exposure to our universe?"

"It was my understanding, sir," Talmadge interrupted, "that the NSA left that option on the table."

"Oh, they did," he agreed. "They did. It was talked about – with much emotion, I might add – for a few hours. But I kept asking one question: what if Frank – this Frank Parker – was supposed to arrive here?" He clasped his hands in the air before him, gracefully resting them on the table. "What if our normal definition of a catastrophe – a truly, awe-inspiring, fear-inducing catastrophe – brought with it the message of hope?" Slowly, he shook his head. "I can't tell you how much my advisors tried to convince me otherwise. It wasn't until I heard from the Pentagon that Larnord demanded an audience with this Frank Parker that I knew I had made the proper decision."

"The right decision," Michelson interjected. "Isn't that what you mean?"

The man lowered his head for a moment, lost in thought. "Channing, I guess that depends on what your definition for a 'right' or a 'wrong' decision is. Personally, I don't think of them as polar opposites. I try to think of every choice as an opportunity to learn something new. You know? To master one more lesson. To accomplish one more good deed." He smiled. "There's an old Chinese proverb I don't recall perfectly from my college days. It says something about even evil serving a purpose. I suppose when you approach life from that perspective, you're always open to … possibilities."

They grew quiet for a moment.

"All right, Frank," the President announced. "I think it's about time you took off the helmet."

"Sir, regardless of the universe, I've never heard you issue a better order."

Parker reached up and pulled the tabs on the helmet's collar. Rising, Michelson shuffled behind the man's chair, and he helped lift the orb off his head. Carefully, he placed it on the table in front of his counterpart.

"Thanks," Parker acknowledged.

"Like you said," the man said, "I know better than anyone how much that thing weighs."

Leaning forward, Campbell reached out for the photograph. He pressed it under his fingertips and gently slid it in the direction of the other three men. Parker reached out, lifted it up, and he stared into the dark eyes.

"Would you like to start us off, Frank?"

Slowly, Parker turned the photograph around. "The man you're looking at is Majd el Din Zamal," he explained easily. "As I told Bradley and the others in the briefing in NeverNeverLand, this is the man I was sent back in time to save. In my timeline, Mr. Zamal was working for the President and the Secretary of State toward securing a peace plan in the Middle East. Again, just to remind everyone else, he was primarily a businessman, and he was using the contacts he made with a whole host of countries to establish secret channels for negotiation. Apparently, it was believed that he was the first person who might be able to achieve some lasting success ... if it wasn't for the fact that he ended up dead."

"How did it happen … in your timeline?" Campbell asked.

"He is killed in what we learned was an act of terrorism, an explosion that destroyed the Heston Tower," Parker said.

"And that's in your timeline?"

"Yes, sir."

"Anything else you can tell us about Mr. Zamal?"

Parker sat back. "Nothing really. A businessman. His codename was Lone Ranger."

"Did his name appear on any government watch lists?"

Parker shook his head. "No, sir. None at all. As a matter of fact, that's one of the things … to tell you the truth … that we found a bit odd in my timeline."

"Why?"

The chrononaut shrugged. "Well, since I guess that decision wasn't necessarily made by this sitting President, I guess I can say that it didn't make any real sense. Not to me. Certainly not to Bradley. Not to any of us, really. I mean … I can certainly understand that Zamal was working on behalf of the American government, but, given the state of affairs in the world and the elevated level of threat, it would only stand to reason that someone was watching him." Parker held up his hand. "You know? The FBI. The CIA. The NSA. Homeland Security. Somebody would've been watching him." He pointed at the picture. "You can't tell me that a man this powerful traveling to all of those countries – some of which have established ties to terrorist networks – wouldn't have fallen onto somebody's radar. If he were really having these meetings – secret meetings with high officials of sworn enemies to the United States – then someone would've been watching him. It only stands to reason. But … we looked and looked. His name never made a dent."

"How is that possible?" Talmadge asked.

"It isn't," the President replied. "At least, in any reasonable frame of reference."

"How do you mean, sir?" Michelson tried. "If Frank says that Zamal never figured into any intelligence circle's equations, then why should we second-guess it?"

"I'm not second-guessing Frank," the man explained. "I'm agreeing with him. In any reasonable world, this man – Majd el Din Zamal – would've been on the subject of a Presidential threat matrix briefing at some point."

Curious, Parker leaned forward. "You do know the man, don't you?"

Campbell nodded. "Yes, I do, Frank. I've met with Zamal a number of times. As a matter of fact, I've had several discussions on the topic of peace that you've eluded to having taken place in your timeline. There is no doubt in my mind that, in your world and mine, he was serving the same purpose … but that would mean that he deceived both you and me."

"Sir?"

With his fingertip, the President spun the black and white photograph around. "Under one of his aliases, this man goes by the name Emile Luga. As it turns out, he was using his international contacts to smuggle weapons into the United States for what we believe were future terrorist attacks on stateside interests. Homeland Security was more than well aware of Mr. Luga's activities, but, using Executive Privilege, I kept them at arm's length with the hope that we could eventually uncover all of his contacts in order to unravel the terrorist network he had created. I don't doubt that he may've been sincere on his efforts at working toward some kind of peace. I was to meet with him in a few days, but he managed to slip away from us. Of course, we've been tracking him very closely. He somehow slipped our agents in Mexico, and he turned up here. Luga represented the worst kind of criminal the world has to offer: one who works to perpetrate fraud on both the forces of good and evil. In short, he's vermin, and the world would be a better place were he eliminated from it."

"Mr. President," Talmadge began, "I don't understand. If this Emile Luga and the Luga from Frank's timeline were essentially correct, then why would the NSA order a backstep to save his life? I would think that they'd be happy to have this man removed from any position of influence."

Campbell smiled. "That is, perhaps, the most important question we need to answer, gentlemen."

"Why?" Michelson asked. "Wouldn't it be more appropriate to stake out the Heston Tower and arrest him when he arrives?"

"I'm afraid that Mr. Luga won't be keeping that reservation, Channing," the President explained. "The Washington DC police and Craig Donovan were investigating a fire that destroyed a weapons cache at an area storage facility, and Emile Luga was found dead."

"Dead?" Parker reached up and stroked his chin. "How is that possible?"

"Well, there is one constant between your timeline and mine, Frank," Campbell said. "Death. In yours, Luga dies in a hotel explosion. In mine, he dies in what the authorities insist is an act of arson by Richard DeMarco, a known terrorist. In either case, foul play surrounds him."

"DeMarco?" Talmadge interrupted. "You mean … he's somehow tied to Luga?"

"We're working on the suspicion that they may have been relatives," the President announced.

Confused, Parker shoved his chair away from the table. He couldn't believe it. He refused to believe that he had been sent back in time to avert an act of terrorism … all to save a terrorist?

"This," he said, rising, "is crazy."

He stepped away from the table. Holding up a hand, he brushed it hard across his face. "With all due respect, Mr. President … this isn't making any sense at all."

"I wouldn't suspect it would, Frank."

The chrononaut paced about the room, glancing from one face to the next. "But … if Luga's already dead … then that would mean …"

"Frank."

He stopped and turned to face Michelson.

"What did Larnord tell you?"

"What do you mean?"

"He told you that events … single events in time … had been re-ordered, didn't he?"

Slowly, Parker turned. "You're saying … what exactly?"

Michelson rose. He walked over to where the man stood. "I'm saying that, regardless of the timeline, maybe what the President said a few minutes ago was the reality you're not facing. Maybe Luga was meant to die. Maybe his death serves some purpose, both in your world and ours."

He shook his head. It still didn't make any sense, and, much worse, he was getting a headache trying to consider all of the possibilities.

"Don't look at the big picture," Michelson counseled him. "I know that's what you're doing. It's what I would be doing … if I were in your shoes. I've been there. I know how the brain works. You start guessing, and then you start second-guessing. Time travel … it's one big chain of dominos that you're trying to stop from falling down. But, in this case, don't look at the entire chain. Look at the one domino. Look at the one event. Think it through. There has to be a connection." Reaching out, he pat the older man gently on the shoulder. "Come on. You wanted me in here for a reason. You and I? We share the same skills. We share the same experience. The only person in this room that's been to both timelines is you. Now, think about it from the individual. Concentrate on Luga. There has to be some connection."

"Channing," Parker spat, "that's impossible!"

"It isn't," he insisted. "There are plenty of other similarities, but there's only one event that brought you here."

"The death of Zamal … or Emile Luga," the chrononaut agreed.

"Think it out."

Parker took a deep breath. For a moment, he covered his eyes with a hand.

"All right," he announced. "In both worlds, Luga dies."

"That much, we know for certain," Talmadge agreed.

"The manner of death is different," the President offered, "but both are violent, nonetheless."

"No," Parker stated. "That isn't it. The fact that the man died … I don't see how that could be a connection except for the fact that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Or maybe," Michelson said, "he was at the right place at the right time … in both worlds."

The chrononaut lifted his eyes and stared at his counterpart. "What did you say?"

"He was at the right place," Michelson repeated, "at the right time … both in your world and ours."

"But … his death didn't serve any purpose in my timeline," Parker reasoned. "At least, I can say that it didn't serve any purpose I knew of."

"It had to," the President challenged. "He's our link. There must be some connection that Larnord wanted you to uncover."

Frustrated, Parker walked back to the table. He grabbed hold of two empty conference table chairs and noisily slid them across the floor. Carefully, as the others watched, he positioned them across from one another in the open floor. He faced the seats toward one another, placing them about six feet apart, and then he stood in the middle. He glanced at the first dark chair, and then he turned to stare at the second.

"Frank," Talmadge began, "besides rearranging the furniture, what are you doing?"

The chrononaut smiled. "I'm doing what Channing said. I'm focusing on the little picture." Crouching, he muttered, "I'm focusing on the single domino." Once he was down, he glanced over his shoulder at the other chair. "Two chairs. Two worlds. Two men."

Stepping over, Michelson reached out and carefully tipped the first chair over, setting it on the floor.

"The man's dead," Parker said.

Walking around to the other chair, the young man upended the second chair, letting it clatter on the solid floor.

"So's this one," he added.

Parker squinted at the fallen chair. He considered it, lying there, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. For all its shape, it was empty, a void waiting to be filled, waiting to be put right, waiting to stand up and welcome another into its embrace … but it couldn't. It could never be right again. It could never be whole again. It could never have the same meaning that it once held for whoever it …

"Bingo," he muttered.

"What?"

"I said 'bingo,' Mr. President."

"Bingo?"

"Yes."

Rising, Parker reached out and slapped Michelson on the shoulder, thanking him for the assistance.

"Channing's right," he explained. "We're looking at the question from the vantage point of trying to place it into the biggest scheme of things to come." He approached the table slowly, his eyes quizzically calculating each word before he spoke. "In my world, Luga's death set one series of events in motion, and in your world it caused another completely different set to unfold. Forget about those things. Forget about what happened after … and, instead, let's think about what happened before."

"I don't understand," the President tried. "Are you saying … are you saying the fact that Luga was secretly working both ends of the peace process for his own personal gain somehow weighs in?"

"No." Quickly, Parker sat down next to the President. Reaching out, he took the statesman by the arm. "Mr. President … you said so yourself … Luga was on the watchlist, but you used your executive influence to keep him out of the spotlight."

"Yes?"

"In my world, someone worked against your interests," he said. "Don't you see?" He gripped the man's arm more tightly. "It what you're telling me is correct … if you knew that Luga was a terrorist … if you knew that his removal from the face of the Earth wouldn't exactly be the worst news to start your day … then why would I have been ordered to go back and save his life?"

"That's easy, Frank," Talmadge interrupted. "As we've already discussed, Luga had built a network that our country could've used against the terrorists."

"Precisely," Parker agreed. "But in both worlds, there's one question that I can't answer: how did either of those chairs get into the country?"

"What?"

"Luga," he corrected. "How did he get into the United States? If he was on the watchlists, then you would've been alerted. In my timeline and yours, Luga slipped through."

Parker rose. "Someone's helping him. Someone helped Emile Luga slip under our own noses and onto our soil. Someone wanted him here … and that person is the link we need to explore." He waved his arms. "You're right. Luga is dead in both timelines, and Channing's right. That death must mean something."

Again, he glanced around at all of their faces.

"If we figure out that single domino, we can stop the entire chain from collapsing."

END of Chapter 75


	76. Chapter 76

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 76

Five Days, Seven Hours, Forty-Five Minutes

From his computer console, Isaac Mentnor glanced around the War Room. The control panels weren't so much lit up like a Christmas tree as they were an entire Christmas village. Emergency telephone calls were coming in from around the world, from members of the European Union, the Parliament, even representatives of the Chinese and Korean governments. The staff was furiously transcribing messages and giving out assurances that the President was working on a statement, the White House would issue a response. Stoddard was calmly speaking into a telephone, clearly trying to give out whatever details he knew it would be appropriate to release. Then, he saw Olga. She spoke into another telephone, nodding and listening, but her eyes were locked on the massive blast doors protecting the subterranean conference room that secured the President, Bradley, Frank, and … Channing.

'What must she be going through?' he wondered.

As she hung up the telephone, he called out her name. Somehow, through the chaos, she heard his cry, and she walked over.

"I don't know what you're thinking, Isaac, but I'm having a hard time believing any of this," she said.

"What's that, my dear?"

Incredulous, she held up her arms. "How could this Senator Pendley destroy … the Vatican?"

Mentnor slowly nodded. "You're thinking about these events conventionally, doctor," he advised her, "and you'll never understand the mind of a terrorist by thinking conventionally. They thrive on the unconventional, the uncharacteristic. Only then can they accomplish whatever lofty goal they've set for themselves."

"But … it's entirely insane!"

"To you and to me, yes," he agreed. "Pendley, on the other hand, sees it as the next logical step in his plan to achieve global supremacy."

Nervously, she glanced back over her shoulder in the direction of the sealed conference room. After a few seconds, she asked, "What do you think they're talking about?"

"Heaven only knows," Mentnor stated. "Let's just hope that, whatever it is, Frank can somehow get to the bottom of all that's happened."

"And Channing," she insisted.

"Yes. And Channing."

The telephone at his console buzzed, and the scientist quickly snatched it from its cradle. Placing it to his ear, he said, "This is Isaac Mentnor."

"Isaac!" Ramsey cried through the open line. "Well, it's about time that White House operator found someone I can talk to!"

"Nathan?" he asked. "What is it? Where are you?"

"I'm in Alaska, Isaac," the director replied, "and things here are a little out of hand."

"Hold on a second, Nathan," Mentnor instructed him. "Let me get Chief Stoddard over here, and I'll put you on conference." He waved in the direction of the man, and Olga quickly ran to comply.

"The hell with the chief! Get me Bradley and the President!"

"I'm afraid that they're indisposed for the moment, as are Frank and Channing."

"Indisposed?" Ramsey asked. "What do you mean? What's happened?"

The scientist cleared his throat. "There's been another attack … this one on a foreign soil."

The director paused, and Mentnor heard the whistle of the wind blowing across the telephone. "My God, Isaac. What was hit?"

"The Vatican is gone, Nathan."

Stoddard and Olga arrived at the station, and Mentnor quickly added, "I'm going to put you on the speaker, Nathan, so that Chief Stoddard and Olga can hear your report." He set the phone back in its cradle and punched a single button. "Are you there?"

The speaker crackled to life. "I'm here. Look, I don't have a lot of time, so I don't want to play twenty questions with anyone. I want to let you know that I've found and secured the President's son-in-law and the agent who survived and was protecting him. They're with me now at our own base camp."

"Base camp?" Stoddard asked. "Don't you mean Zulu Base?"

"That's why I'm calling, sir," Ramsey replied. "It would seem that the helicopter we believed to be on a kill mission for Hightower was a diversion. Though it was on course to beat me to him, we beat it here. Right now, I have Yuri trying to task a Russian satellite over our position to get me some data …"

"Belay that, Mr. Ramsey," the chief ordered. "While you've been away we recovered the use of our own satellite system." Turning to an aide, Stoddard ordered him to locate any available feed over Zulu Base immediately.

"That's good news, sir," the director continued. "Right now, we've set up a temporary base of operations. I'd like whatever intel you can give me before I take a strike team back – if necessary – to retake Zulu, but I need to know … what would Senator Pendley want with it?"

Mentnor watched as the muscles in Stoddard's cheek rippled slightly. The man was grinding his teeth as he thought about the question. The chief glanced at the scientist, but Mentnor had nothing to say.

"Mr. Ramsey," Stoddard said, "your strike team … who do you have? And please tell me that you brought soldiers serving under General Nash?"

"I did, sir," he answered. "I have about two dozen of our boys, and Yuri's crew totals – "

"Denied, Mr. Ramsey," the chief snapped. "No Russian can accompany you on the mission. Do you understand me? We're talking about sensitive technology, the kind of which this government cannot allow – despite the present circumstances – to fall into the hands of any other nation. Is that clear?"

There was a hush over the line before Ramsey asked, "Jesus, chief, what the hell are we talking about here?"

Ignoring the stares from Mentnor and Olga, the man continued, "Zulu was a base of operations for a technology you're not entirely unfamiliar with, Mr. Ramsey."

"Time travel?"

Mentnor closed his eyes.

"You have your Blackberry?" Stoddard asked.

"I do."

"I'll send you the operational files on Project Halfstep," he said. "Mr. Ramsey, these are classified by Presidential order. Do not share them with anyone. Do you understand?"

With a hint of sarcasm, the director shot, "If you recall, I have more enough experience keeping secrets, chief."

"Thank you." Stiffening where he stood, he added, "Once you've reviewed the files, contact me here in the War Room. I don't want you taking one step into that base until you're prepared for what may be waiting."

"Understood."

Defiantly, Stoddard reached out and turned off the telephone. Glancing up, he ordered, "I need the two of you to come with me. You'll need to be brought up to speed as well."

END of Chapter 76


	77. Chapter 77

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 77

Five Days, Seven Hours, Thirty-One Minutes

Craig Donovan stared at the television screen in amazement. He stopped listening to the CVN Foreign Bureau reporter a long time ago as the words no longer had any meaning. Instead, he looked past the talking head-and-shoulders at the gaping hole behind him. It was the spot where the Vatican once stood, but now it was a mess of black earth, dark water, and half-buried bodies. Sirens occasionally drown out the words that the reporter tried desperately to say, and panicked citizens ran across the screen in utter terror. He heard their screams, their cries for help, and he sat in the living room, his right hand twitching, fighting the impulse to roll into a ball and smack something as hard as he could.

"This has to stop," he mumbled to himself.

CVN suddenly lost its feed, and the screen blanked to electronic static for a moment. Quickly, the broadcast engineers cued the signal from the main newsroom, and new talking heads filled the image.

"This has to stop."

"Craig?"

He turned to find Indiri slowly walking out of the bedroom. She had fallen asleep the moment they had arrived at the safehouse, after he had tucked her in and assured her that no one would come for her here, and he let her sleep. She had been through enough, but now … now he had to explain this.

"What's going on?"

Quickly, he grabbed the remote and muted the television volume. He stood, dropping the remote on the couch. It bounced off the cushion and clunked onto the floor. He nearly stooped to pick it up, but then he thought better of it.

"Indiri, there's been another terrorist attack."

He watched her mouth open in disgust. "Oh, no," she said. "What … what was hit?"

He cleared his throat, trying to force the images of the destruction from his mind. There were so many flickering reels in his head. Desert Storm. Backsteps. 9/11. Frank's death. Now … this.

"The Vatican is gone," he said simply.

She gasped.

"It's just making the news."

Slightly perturbed, she ordered, "Turn it off."

Now, he crouched to the floor, retrieved the remote, and turned the television off.

"Craig, how did this happen?"

Rising, he explained, "It's terrorism, Indiri. There's … there's really nothing more you can say about it."

"But how did this happen?" she pressed. "How could someone … get a weapon that could do this?"

He shrugged. Working for the government, for the NSA, he was more than aware of several classified defense projects in the works, and many of them had not long ago been the fodder of science fiction. But, as technologies advanced, the military always sought to find the perfect means to weaponize the science. Within certain government circles, weapons mattered. They were all that mattered. He'd often joked with colleagues whether or not some bureaucrats would prefer that weapons be given the right to vote. After all, all weapons are created equal … and they kill with increasing efficiency. How could you explain the logic behind using a technology to wipe out life … all life … with no chance of returning? He couldn't.

Stepping around the couch, he walked up to her. He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"You have to understand, Indiri," he began, "that the people who make these weapons … most of the times … they don't think about the consequences of what happens after the weapon becomes active. They're just … workers … ordinary folks like you and me … they're doing a job creating a tool to make our world safer … but, yes, if it falls into the wrong hands … if any weapon falls into the wrong hands … I think you know the rest."

"Why would we make something that could do … this?"

"I don't have any answers."

Lifting her head, she locked her eyes with his. "Did Richard DeMarco have anything to do with this?"

Honestly, Donovan shrugged. "There's no way for me to know."

"But he's a terrorist!" she insisted. "Doesn't it make sense that he could be involved in this somehow?"

"It does," he agreed with her, and he slipped one arm around her shoulder, carefully leading her toward the couch. "Right now, I don't think we have all of the information necessary to give an honest answer about whether or not DeMarco had anything to do with this. I think it's a safe bet to say that he may be involved. But no one can say for sure."

Sitting down, she shook her head. "And he wants me dead."

Donovan sat beside her. Calmly, he placed his hands on his lap. He didn't want to say anything, but he trusted that she was waiting for him. "Yes," he stated. "It looks like it."

"If he can do that," she began, "how in the world will I ever be safe?"

Pointing at the television, he explained, "Indiri, you have to understand that using a weapon of that magnitude … he'd have to know where you are … and there's no way he's finding out."

"Can you be certain?"

"I can."

"There's no one who can tell him?"

He started to reply but thought better of it.

"If Richard DeMarco has control over that weapon, I seriously doubt that he would use it for personal revenge."

Easily, she placed her head on his shoulder.

"I'm just so tired," she muttered. "I'm just … so very tired … of all of this."

She began to sob softly, and Donovan reached up with a hand and touched her cheek. After a few moments, she drifted off peacefully, and he sat in the darkened room wondering where DeMarco could possibly be hiding … and, worse, who could be helping him.

END of Chapter 77


	78. Chapter 78

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 78

Five Days, Seven Hours, Twenty Minutes

Fortunately, the War Room had several conference centers. Stoddard walked in, instructing the technicians who had taken the room as a tactical ops headquarters to vacate and move upstairs, into the White House, in preparation for the inevitable news report. The President would need to review their data, he explained, and Stoddard wanted to give it his personal blessing. "Have a rough draft in front of me within the hour," he ordered as the last man walked through the doorway. Calmly, the chief closed the door.

"Dr. Vukavitch, Dr. Mentnor," he began, walking up to the small table and taking a chair across from them, "I don't need to remind you of your secrecy oaths, but what I'm about to tell you is only known to a very small handful of the President's most trusted advisors. Given the possible development in Alaska, I think it prudent that you have all of the necessary facts possible. Also, given the fact that Pendley doesn't appear to be coming to his sense, we may very well may need to make use of all possible alternatives if we're going to stop him … and that's largely why I want you to know about this."

Quickly, Olga glanced over at the senior scientist before she flatly stated, "Tell us whatever you like, chief."

Stoddard exhaled heavily. He glanced down at his watch.

"You know, it's funny how so much of our lives revolves around time," he began. "I would imagine that the President and your colleagues have already discussed the possibility of a Backstep to circumvent this whole affair. In point of fact, a Backstep was the initial suggestion of the NSA, but the President overruled it once we learned that Larnord wanted to speak with Mr. Parker." Shaking his head, he continued, "In any event, I want you to understand that this Administration has always supported the use of the Backstep technology to protect our interests around the globe. The more we used it, the more the President came to accept it as the ultimate offensive weapon. However … there are those within the elite military of our country who've long wondered about the possible defensive applications of this technology. Of course, the science advisors were always against it. They didn't rule it out as a possibility. Much to the contrary, they had already developed several prototypes." Calmly, he placed his hands on the table. "I think it's a safe assumption that what we're looking at today – this Doomsday weapon in the hands of Senator Pendley – is one prototype that's gone operational."

"Didn't you know which group within the military was developing the weapon?" Olga asked.

Stoddard smiled briefly. "I don't think any man or woman within the ranks of the current government knows everything that's in development. It's like the entire Backstep Program. It's part of the President's Black Budget, dedicated to the entire military … so, no, there's absolutely no way to ascertain all the facts." He nodded. "I have some of my staff investigating a possible paper trail, but I seriously doubt we'll discover anything of tremendous consequence between now and … well, let's just say between now and whenever Pendley strikes again."

"So this … what did you call it?" Mentnor interrupted. "This Halfstep Program? This was one of the projects secretly being developed?"

"The growing concern was that the more we had use of the Backstep Program, the more likely proof of its existence – proof of our ability to travel through time, however limited – would find its way into the global intelligence community," Stoddard explained. "Presently, I know that the Israelis are aware of the Sphere, as are the Chinese."

"But how?" Olga wondered aloud. "We've operated with the highest level of security!"

"Trust me, doctor," the chief offered. "There are those within our own government who seek to benefit from whatever technology they could offer to a foreign power. As President Lincoln long ago said, we're our own worst enemy, and Washington is full of opportunists seeking personal wealth, not public service." He shrugged. "There are members of the NSA who may've breached their oaths. There are even senators of the Senate Intelligence Committee who may've sold information to various governments in Europe. It's the reality I have to suffer each day.

"However, yes, Halfstep evolved out of our fear that another government would eventually locate NeverNeverLand and strike it."

"Militarily?" Mentnor said incredulously.

"Precisely," he answered. "What if a tactical nuke or a briefcase bomb were able to destroy the Sphere? With the timecraft gone, we'd have no means to undo the damage … and that's where Halfstep came in."

The two scientists leaned forward eagerly.

Stoddard cleared his throat. "Two years ago, agents within the Central Intelligence Agency acted on information they had received about an Unidentified Flying Object shot down in the jungles of South America. A covert ops team was assembled. These were our seven best soldiers. They were given explicit orders to locate the craft and retrieve whatever technology possible and destroy any other evidence they couldn't carry or ferry out of the area. Apparently, the craft had gone down in a relatively hostile part of the jungle where some rebels are fighting for what they believe is their own independence from several warring drug cartels. These rebels – they go by the name 'Libertad,' or Liberty – hold up in a very small village adjacent to the coordinates we had been provided for the downed craft, and satellite photography showed that several of these locals had discovered it. Fortunately for everyone, they didn't have any free press or any means to tell the world what they had found. Infiltrating their organization and locating the craft was no problem for our soldiers. However, much of the craft had already been salvaged … or destroyed. We managed to locate the reactor. I can only guess that the rebels didn't have the tools to remove the fuel rods. We did, so we took them, and we detonated several smaller explosives to eliminate any further evidence.

"These rods were brought back to the United States. They were very similar in design to what we found in the Roswell craft that powers the Backstep module, but they lack a high concentration of the temporal fuel. As a result, the timecraft that was developed is much smaller than the Sphere. Basically, it isn't much larger than an average human adult male. Also, it doesn't have the power to travel back in time seven days. During test trials, the Sarcophagus went three days, and that's why it's called Halfstep: it goes about half as far as the Backstep module."

Slowly, Mentnor nodded. "This was developed for us to use in the event that NeverNeverLand was attacked?"

"Exactly," Stoddard agreed. "However, while the President has long been an advocate of time travel, he firmly believed that the Halfstep Program should be kept only as a last alternative. Consequently, he ordered for the craft to be placed in hiding at some military base as far out of the mainland as possible."

"Zulu Base," Olga acknowledged.

Stoddard's expression hardened. "That's correct."

Mentnor drummed his fingers on the hard table. "So … if that secret attack helicopter was full of troops sent to steal the Halfstep Module … then it could very well be that Senator Pendley would be in possession of temporal technology for defensive and offensive purposes?"

"That," the chief said, "is also correct."

"Then Nathan has to be told," Olga insisted. "As it stands, Pendley can strike us whenever he likes. If the President orders it, we can have Channing flown back to our base. He can go back in time and have each of these targets evacuated to minimize the loss of life. Or … we can find out where Senator Pendley is hiding this weapon, and we can have Channing go back to stop it. Either way, someone needs to get back to NeverNeverLand."

"Why not Frank Parker?" Stoddard asked. "Unless I miss my guess, his Sphere is now in our timeline. Why don't we simply send him back?"

"Chief, it takes the module several days to fully charge," Mentnor explained. "Frank's module would've only just arrived at the base. It's presently in no condition to go anywhere. As it stands, Channing's module is our only alternative."

"I agree."

The three of them grew silent.

"All we have to do is convince the President," Stoddard concluded.

END of Chapter 78


	79. Chapter 79

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 79

Five Days, Seven Hours, Three Minutes

"It won't work."

Ramsey glanced up from the makeshift map table, staring past the surprised expression of Yuri Ivanov, into the sparkling green eyes of the man's daughter, Svetlana. She stepped forward, gripping her father by the shoulder, and gently moved him aside.

"Here," she said, pointing to the crude map they had scrawled with black marker ink on the canvas. "I'm telling you, Mr. Ramsey. I flew the Havoc over the base before I landed there a few hours ago. Also, I flew the recon missions around your precious Zulu. I'm telling you that if you want to bring all of these men and their guns over that ridge then you'll be committing suicide." Her English was broken, but she carried it quite well. "There are too many places for this other team – this secret helicopter team – to be hiding. With a single sniper, they could take out almost all of your men before you made it to the first structure."

Smirking, the director mumbled, "That sounds like old school Russian pessimism, if you ask me."

"It may be old school, Nathan," Ivanov joined in, "but Svetlana is right. There is no room for an ambush, but there is far too much ground to cross before you would have suitable cover."

"You can cover us from the air," Ramsey argued, "in the Havoc."

"Nyet," Svetlana answered quickly. "Flying all the way here has put the girl low on fuel as it is. We were counting on being resupplied for the trip back home …"

"And I promise you," the director interrupted, "you will be … once we take back Zulu first."

She cocked her head at him. "With this plan?"

Ramsey stood upright. Glaring at her, he said, "You know, I'll be damned if you don't remind me of another Russian I work with every day."

"Dr. Vukavitch?" she asked.

"Yeah!" he exclaimed. "So you've heard of her."

"Please," Svetlana gasped. "The United States can keep her."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Nathan!" Ivanov shouted over the two of them. "This is no time for another Cold War! It is already cold enough!"

"You're not kidding," the director spat.

"May I suggest something?"

Turning, Ramsey watched as Nolan Murphy walked up to the table. Close behind him, Trace Hightower edged forward, glancing down at the map.

"Of course, Agent Murphy," Ramsey replied. "Right now, we need more inspiration and less agitation."

Murphy smiled. "Well, in my line of work, a little bit of both makes for a happy medium." Reaching out, he traced the northern perimeter of the base where Ramsey had intended his charge of the compound. "Miss Ivanov is correct, director. This is no disrespect to your plan. It's a good one, but Mr. Hightower and I stayed at that base for four days in preparation for this little adventure of ours. She's dead accurate in saying that a single sniper – strategically placed – could probably bring down most if not all of your men before they made it here." He tapped his finger on the nearest building. "Besides, we don't know if this structure is safe. There's no telling where this strike team may be housed. We don't know how many men they have, and we certainly can't be convinced that the other soldiers – General Nash's troops – won't fire on us. Their lives may be at stake. They may have no choice." Thoughtfully, he reached up and scratched his chin. "But I'm inclined to agree with you … let's let them think that's where you're coming from. It's the most logical choice, so it's going to be the most likely guarded direction. We are north of them, after all."

Sliding his finger across the map, he touched the area between two squares – two hangars adjacent to the base's small airstrip. "Given our fuel situation, we can count on limited support from the air from one of the two larger Russian helicopters, and I'd have the Havoc make a quick run for this spot … there … between those two hangars." He held up his hands, showing a short distance between them. "Like I said, I've been there. We stored our gear in the southernmost of those two hangars, and I know – for a fact – that there's just enough space between these two buildings to squeeze that Havoc."

Ramsey glanced at the map, considering the possibility. "That may be the case, agent, but setting the Havoc down there would make it a sitting duck from two directions. All it would take is one shoulder missile, and Svetlana would be going home in a body bag … no insult intended."

"I didn't say put her down, director."

Lifting his eyes, Ramsey glared at the younger man. "What are you talking about then?"

"If Svetlana can put her bird between those hangars, then we've easily enough cable to rappel down to the ground," he explained. "We could be from the bird to the ground in less than ten seconds, maybe five … if we're good."

"If we're good?" Ivanov asked. "Has the United States military grown so fixed in its complacency that it no longer sees the need to teach its soldiers to rappel?"

Grinning, Murphy nodded. "Of course, we do, Mr. Ivanov."

Correcting, the man said, "General Ivanov."

"Aren't you a colonel?" Ramsey asked.

"I can dream, can't I?"

"Of course, these soldiers have had the necessary training … uh … General … Colonel Ivanov," Murphy assured him, "but I would imagine that Zulu isn't a short rotation. Most of these soldiers have probably done very little rope work." He glanced over at Hightower. "I, on the other hand, have been tried to my physical limits keeping up with the President's son-in-law. Not six months ago we were rappelling down some peaks near Mount Rainier … for several days. I think I'm more than up for it."

"That's one," Ramsey countered. "One does not a strike force make, agent."

"Is it dangerous?" Hightower suddenly asked.

Shaking his head, the director immediately said, "Don't you even think about it …"

"Now, wait a minute," the young man insisted, stepping up to the table. "Murphy's right. I can do this. You need a man who can get to the ground in a matter of seconds, and I happen to be one of the two best candidates."

"Absolutely not," argued Ramsey. "Son, I just took the two of you out of harm's way. Do you really think I'm going to keep my job if I send you into the middle of this?"

Hightower shrugged. "From the sounds of it, there may not be much of a job to go back to if we don't succeed."

"The President's yearling has a point," Svetlana quipped.

Pointing at her, Ramsey shot, "You stay out of this!"

"Me?" she asked. "Who is going to fly the Havoc, if not me?"

"I can do it," Ivanov tried.

"I am the better pilot."

"I would never argue otherwise," her father agreed.

"Then that is settled," she stated flatly. "You are not flying my bird."

"Director," Murphy insisted as he moved closer to Ramsey, "it isn't as if we have any other options. It's simple. Mr. Hightower and I will rappel down to the ground from the helicopter. We'll secure the ropes. Then, I'll get him out of there. We'll take shelter in one of those hangars, and I'll keep him there until you've been able to secure the base." He pointed back to the map. "Have the men come over that ridge to serve as a diversion. That strike team will stay busy trying to stop them. In the meantime, Ms. Ivanov flies between these hangars, we hit the grounds, secure the cables, let the remainder of our own team down, and now we have two fronts to work from. If they flew in that modified Apache, then they can't have a very big crew. Seven, at the most. If they plan on flying it out with … well … with whatever it is you're thinking they came to steal, then they sure as hell aren't planning on having room for everyone on that return trip."

Ramsey grimaced. He couldn't tell them about the Sarcophagus. It would violate his oath. But after reviewing Stoddard's files, the director was certain that Pendley's team had one objective: secure that time travel device, and fly it to wherever the senator demands.

Looking around at their faces, he shook his head.

"Someone in Washington is sure gonna have my hide for this," he muttered.

"Nonsense," Svetlana offered. "It sounds like vacation."

END of Chapter 79


	80. Chapter 80

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 80

Five Days, Six Hours, Forty-Eight Minutes

Pendley stared out across the bank of television monitors with nothing more than curiosity.

He watched several news anchors from a variety of cable news channels talking about the 'devastation' of the Vatican. He saw an entire fleet of ambulances – they must have driven in from every possible hospital in a twenty-mile radius – parked with their doors open, their lights flashing, and their medics scrambling. The scene was pure chaos – even after the last hour the authorities had to bring the situation under control – and it was clearly growing worse. One reporter had mentioned that people were looting. Looting? In Italy? Pendley couldn't imagine such a thing, but, then again, most of the Catholics must have feared that this act of terror – this single, indefinable moment in the history of mankind – signaled the end of the world. Of course, terrorism thrived overseas. Most European nations don't possess the police forces or the technologies to detect these criminals long before their plans are in motion … but this? No government had the skills to detect a temporal weapon, and he trusted he was responsible for the mobilization of several small armies. How to defend against this? There was no way. There was only a reaction to his action.

He pursed his lips in thick concentration. Had it really gone this far? He never intended to strike such a political target, but – damn him – President Campbell had left no alternative. Campbell and his minions were refusing to acquiesce to the demands, and Pendley couldn't back down now, no matter how disgusted he grew from the images flickering across the television screens, no matter how far this entire gambit of his needed to go. Right now, the world was teetering on the brink of insanity. He put it there. He'd happily bring it back, but only – and only – after he took control of the United States government. Campbell would have to surrender, in private, control of the US to him. It was an unconditional demand. No other option was open to any man, woman, dictator, nation, or the world. These fifty states had slipped too far of their proper course, so far as he was concerned, and he would personally see them put back on the path to sovereignty, to strength, to peace, to prosperity. If Campbell wouldn't do, if Campbell couldn't do it, then he would. Yes, innocent people would die in the process. Many already had. Many more would … if Campbell refused.

Anxiously, he reached for his cell phone, took it firmly in his hand … and then stopped.

No.

No.

It hasn't been long enough, he told himself. That idiot Campbell and his idiotic advisors haven't had enough to see. They hadn't watched enough of the carnage yet. They hadn't seen enough destruction. They hadn't experienced enough chaos. Pendley smiled. He wanted every world leader calling the White House. He wanted every premier, every dictator, every king, every queen, every prince, every ruler flood that switchboard, and he wanted Campbell to suffer not only from Pendley's demands … he wanted the man to suffer the demands of the world. Europe wouldn't stand for this. China wouldn't stand for this. Japan wouldn't stand for this. The North Koreans would be mobilizing their nuclear weapons program, and their government would be threatening the mighty old reliable United States to bring an end to this bloodshed any possible way it could … or the world would suffer the consequences. No nation would live in peace. It would be the Cold War, all over again, but amplified to the point of including every country around the globe. No one would live without the threat of temporal annihilation … but from where? Where did this lone warrior strike from? Surely, the United States with its vast resources, manpower, and intelligence had to know. Certainly, the President – this champion against terror – would already have committed a score of troops to prepare for any impending attack on his soil … but could he protect the world? They would demand it, all of those other nations. They would demand US intervention and protection. They would demand it, or this administration would pay the price for their negligence.

Then, Campbell would be ready to talk. He'd be ready to surrender his own family, if Pendley asked for it. He'd be willing and able to sign whatever document his advisors placed in front of him in order to give the world its assurance for a lasting peace against this …

Madman?

No, Pendley told himself. I'm not madman. I'm a crusader. I'm a liberator. That's what I am. Of course, these talking heads on the cable news outlet – damn those CVN wonks – they're saying different, but I know what I am. I'm a patriot, and I'll be revealed as such once all of this madness can be put behind us. Once Campbell agrees. Once the Administration does what it should have done hours ago. This all will be sorted out, and the world will come to recognize me as a brilliant strategist, a new leader for a bold new generation of cooperation and enlightenment. Time travel, they'll all learn, has been reshaping their destinies, but not any more. Not when I'm in charge. Not when they all bow down …

No, he told himself. That isn't what he wanted. He didn't want their blind subservience. He wanted their faithful allegiance to his cause. They'd understand. He knew they would. All of these commentators on the news? They have it all wrong. Ordinary people. The kind who elected him to office. They'll understand, and they'll forgive him for doing what had to be done. They'll forgive him for showing them the road to the future. They'll agree that the losses were … were … necessary sacrifices in order to create a final global unity, and he'll feel all the better for their support.

Glancing down, he realized he was still gripping his cell phone in his hand. He studied his fingers. They were red from exertion, clamped down on the small wireless device. Then he saw that his hand was trembling, and he released it to fall in his lap. Blinking, he looked at the small silver communicator, and he wondered why – all of a sudden – it frightened him. It was silent. He had nothing to fear from a telephone, did he? He had nothing to fear from anyone who would call him. He was a senator – a United States senator – and he had nothing on his mind that required so much apprehension. It was just a phone. A simple unimportant cellular telephone.

Why was he trembling?

In his lap, the phone chirped.

Quickly, he snatched it up, tapped a single button, and hissed, "What?"

"Senator?"

"What?" he demanded. "What? What? WHAT!"

"Take is easy, Arthur," DeMarco offered in a calm voice. "You've been working to hard."

Defiant, Pendley snarled, "What would you know about the work I'm doing, Richard? What would you know?"

The young man paused to think about the question. "I know that there are a great many things I've seen on the television, Arthur, and these events do not make much sense."

"Everything, Richard," the man began, his voice wavering from his anger, "has its purpose. Haven't I told you that over the years? Nothing happens on coincidence. Nothing happens on circumstance. Every single event that has occurred in the history of mankind can be traced directly back to a cause and a purpose." He took a deep breath. "I can only imagine that what you're seeing on the news has a purpose all of its own."

"How would you have me feel about them?"

"I would have you accept them."

"At face value … or at your request?"

Pendley sniffed. "Whichever approach changes this topic the quickest will suit my needs perfectly."

"Very well."

"What did you want?"

"You said you would have an address for me, Arthur."

The senator cleared his throat. Was it hot in here? Was he sweating? He reached up and wiped the beads from his nose. "And I have one, Richard, but before I give you anything I'm going to need certain assurances."

"I will offer what I can."

Firmly, he stated, "You will give me your word that you will not go there until I have instructed you that it is safe to do so."

"Safe?" DeMarco asked. "Arthur, you will forgive my impertinence, but when have you ever worried about my safety?"

"This has nothing to do with your safety, you fool," he shot. "I'm far more concerned about the number of mistakes you've made today."

"Mistakes?"

"Yes, mistakes," he answered. "Richard, I knew that you couldn't control your appetite, but really? You've gone after this woman you felt the need to sleep with. You've drawn the attention of the police, the local media, and now the NSA! She's being kept at a safehouse operated by one of the most clandestine organizations within the United States government, and all for what? Because of your irrefutable need for sex!"

"Is that all?"

"Hardly," Pendley continued. "Now, I've come to understand that one of the local terror cells the government has been shadowing out of their operations in a certain deli has come up missing two of its principle players … their leader and his sister. Tell me, Richard. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

"I do not know what you are talking about, Arthur."

"Really?"

"As a matter of fact, I think you are … what is the word … rambling, at this point."

"You may think whatever you like," the senator countered, "but, from this point forward, I will withdraw my support of you … I will withdraw whatever information I can provide to assist you … unless you agree to do things at my direction." He craned his neck and felt the sweat rolling down his shoulders. It truly was warm in the Crypt. "You do as I say, or you are on your own. Completely and utterly abandoned. Is that clear?"

After a pause, DeMarco answered, "Yes."

"Tell me it's perfectly clear."

"I understand you perfectly, Arthur."

Pendley relaxed. He loosed his jaw, feeling the muscles ache. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. I am sorry that I have become such a nuisance to you."

"Thank you. I understand. After all, we all have … appetites."

"I appreciate that."

From his pocket, the senator pulled up a slip of paper. "A colleague of mine was able to establish Ms. Farris's whereabouts. She's being kept under guard at a local hotel. The Georgian. To my surprise, it's one of the larger hotels in the outlying areas. One would think that the NSA would want to keep a low profile, but perhaps they're approaching this from the perspective that there is far greater safety where there are far more people to see an approaching killer … so Richard … please … don't do anything until you hear from me. I'll need to make certain that my contact is safe."

"Do you have the room number?"

Smiling, Pendley said, "Do you take me for a fool?"

"You know that I would do no such thing, Arthur."

"Then give me the luxury of retaining that specific information for the second call," he said. "I want to be sure that you don't disobey me again, Richard. If this is the only leverage I have, then I'll damned well use it."

END of Chapter 80


	81. Chapter 81

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 81

Five Days, Six Hours, Thirty-Five Minutes

Thankfully, President Campbell wasn't lacking computer skills. While Parker, Michelson, and Talmadge reviewed the classified documents surrounding Emile Luga, Richard DeMarco, and their possible links to terrorist cells both within and beyond US borders, the commander-in-chief cued into the Executive Server via an available computer socket and began perusing the flood of correspondence from his entire staff. Early casualty reports from the Mid-East tsunami – the result of Pendley's destruction of the Basilisk – projected over two thousand people dead or injured; the data, unfortunately, was not more specific. There were no loss-of-life estimates out of Vatican City, but a CVN anchor guessed that the number would probably continue to grow as more and more rubble from the buildings collapsing from the Vatican's destruction was cleared. Curiously, the President scrolled through some media files, hoping to decipher what the press was making of all this. All major media outlets were suggesting links to terrorist groups with agendas to disrupt any attempts for peace between the world governments and Islamic fundamentalists – couldn't they ever get off that story? Of greater concern was the blatant attack on the Pope. Many speculated that the 'War on Terror' was historically entering a new phase, where some opposing religious doctrine sought to wipe Catholicism from the face of the Earth.

In his chair, the President chuckled.

"Sir?" Talmadge asked.

"Nothing," he replied. "I'm sorry for disturbing you. I'm … I'm reading some of the press speculation on the events."

"What are they saying?" Michelson tried.

Closing down his cache, Campbell stated, "Much of the obvious. It's terrorism. Clear and simple. Though they lack any proof or any substantive material or a group claiming responsibility for the events, the pundits are already out in full force trying to tie all of this into a comfortable little package to indict the United States."

"Why shouldn't they?"

Everyone in the room glared at Frank Parker.

Not looking up from the files he was thumbing through, he explained, "It is our weapon, after all."

"But they don't know that?"

Smirking, the chrononaut added, "Mr. President, you don't really believe that there is a single government that isn't going to reach the same conclusion as the press, do you? I mean … I know I come from a different world … but from what I can see the United States is still the only remaining superpower on the block. If that's the case, you know where the blame is going to go. It's going where it always goes. To the biggest bully. To the guys with the best weapons, the most efficient technology. When you're sitting on the other side of our borders, it's always easy to point the finger."

"Frank," Campbell tried, leaning forward, "officially the United States had nothing to do with this."

"Officially or not, your Administration is going to capture the lion's share of the blame, sir," Parker added. "That's the nature of the beast. Isn't it?"

Frowning, Campbell agreed, "It always has been. I guess it always will be."

"I don't like it any more than you do, sir."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The chief sat back. He thought about picking up the phone, dialing Stoddard, and organizing a quick press conference in order to go on the defense. Parker was right. The longer the President remained silent, the more complicit his country was going to appear. He had learned early in his career as a statesman to always speak up when things go wrong. People needed to be assured of their safety. They needed to hear words of uncompromising optimism from a leader. That's part of the process. Examining an event, and, rather than dissecting it, having something relevant to say about its place against the broader backdrop of history. Something had happened. Something dire. Nefarious. Campbell trusted that ordinary folks would want to know what their government was going to do about it, and he had better say something.

Soon.

"I think you're right, Frank," he finally announced. "I know that Stoddard wants to coordinate a major press event. It's time that I do so."

"From where?" the man asked.

"Where else?" He tapped his fingers on the table. "The Oval Office."

Glancing up from the document he studied, Talmadge showed a stern expression. "Mr. President, I'm not so sure that's a good idea. As it stands, Senator Pendley can't be absolutely certain of your whereabout. Granted, he's called here, but for all he knows you've been sequestered into some remote location, a precaution against a probable strike of the White House."

Campbell held up a hand. "I appreciate your concern, director, but the people of this country need to hear from the President. It's been my experience that they prefer to see him from the desk he occupies in the event of such catastrophes."

"Sir," Michelson joined the conversation, "I don't mean you any disrespect, but I think what Director Talmadge is saying should be seriously considered. We don't know the extent of the senator's capabilities, and he might take the opportunity of a White House press conference as a bold attempt to make a statement to the other governments of the world. Could you imagine what that would do? I know things are out of control in Italy and the Middle East right now, but realize that the chaos could be far worse."

The President shook his head. "Absolutely not, gentlemen. If I'm going to speak to the nation, I'm going to do it from the Oval Office. I'm not afraid of the senator. I'm not show him an ounce of hesitation. That would give him a greater advantage to exploit."

Lifting his head from the stack of photographs before him, Parker looked confused. He brought a hand up to his chin and leaned on it.

"Besides," he muttered, "where would you go?"

"What's that, son?"

The chrononaut blinked. It didn't make sense. Of course, the President would speak from the Oval Office. Of that, the senator was probably as certain as they were. But … if not the Oval Office … then where?

"Mr. President," Parker began, "let's say that some circumstances arose that specifically prohibited you from using your office. Wouldn't you use an … I don't know … alternate location?"

The commander-in-chief considered the question for a few moments. "There have been occasions where I've used the White House lawn. During the Korean kidnapping affair, I was in transit, so I issued my statement from Air Force One. Why do you ask?"

"Heston Tower," he said.

"What?"

"Heston Tower," Parker repeated.

"What about it?"

He cleared his throat. "Do we have any building schematics of Heston Tower?"

"We wouldn't have them here," Campbell explained. "I can have some brought in."

Dreamily, as if losing focus, Parker said, "That would be good. Thank you."

"Frank," Michelson interjected. "What is it?"

Pushing his chair back from the table, the chrononaut rose and began pacing again. "Sorry, folks, but I like to pace when I think."

"Whatever helps," Campbell agreed.

"Frank," Talmadge tried, "why don't you tell us what you're thinking?"

The man took a few steps and placed his hands on his waist. He glanced around the room, looked at the walls, the floor, the ceiling.

"In my timeline," he explained slowly, "I was sent back in time to save the life of a man who died in an explosion of the Heston Tower." He gripped his fingers tightly to his beltline, and he bit his lower lip. "The operational strategy was to save his life because the President was going to use him as an envoy toward a peace process in the Middle East." He dropped his hands and walked back toward the table. "All I had to do was show up, find out what caused the blast, and stop it."

"Wait a minute," Talmadge interrupted. "Do you mean to tell me that you were sent back in time without knowing what caused the blast?"

"That's right," Parker replied. "It was … it was a pretty large explosion. It damaged buildings more than three blocks away. They were still sifting through the rubble … they were still involved in the business of removing the bodies … the experts on the scene were leaning very strongly in the direction of it being an act of terrorism, and they reached that conclusion because of what the President told us about Zamal … or Luga … or whatever you want to call him. But suppose … suppose …"

"Suppose what, Frank?" Michelson tried, growing impatient.

"Suppose for a second that Luga was not the victim of a terrorist attack," he postulated. "Suppose he was there for a reason, but that the explosion itself was not specifically directed at him." He shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe it was completely random. Maybe it was … I don't know … the result of some structural defect to the building."

"I'm not expert in matters of civil engineering, Frank," the President offered, "but I think I know enough about general masonry, carpentry, and construction to know that a building the size of Heston Tower doesn't just blow up."

"Yeah," Parker agreed. "That's what I was thinking, too."

They grew quiet, each of them pondering what the development possibly meant.

"Let's suppose … let's just suppose for a moment that the blast was intentional," the chrononaut agreed.

"Who caused it?" Michelson asked.

"That's a good question, but it's not important," Parker argued. "At least, it's not important to where I'm going with this. Save it."

"Why would someone blow up a building the size of Heston Tower?" Talmadge offered. "Terrorism, but, as you've said, we're ruling that out for the time being." He sat back in his black leather chair. "To make some kind of political statement … that isn't very far removed from terrorism. General demolition, but I've been to the Heston. Structurally, it's one of the best built towers in the country. It's been featured in several architectural reviews, not that I read the stuff. I know that from staying there. It's been posted in their lobby." He grimaced. "It's one of Washington's oldest buildings. It's very solid. And, yes, I can understand from what you've said, Frank, that it would take rescue teams quite some time to dig through …"

Inspired, Parker stuck a finger at the director.

"That's it!"

"Are you saying … they wanted to bury something?"

He nodded. "I think so."

"To what end?" the President asked.

"To keep it from being found for a reasonably long time."

"I still have to ask … to what end?"

"That, I don't know," Parker admitted. "Who knows? Maybe it was to cause a delay in finding something."

"Or someone," Michelson added, "like Zamal. The President has explained that he didn't know that the man was in the country. Maybe whomever he met with – assuming he met with someone – wanted him out of the way because of the possibility of bringing peace to a region of the world that's never known it!" He shook his head. "No, terrorism still makes the most logical sense. Everything else is just conjecture."

"That's all we have to deal with, Channing," Parker told him. "Conjecture. But I think that someone brought the Heston down for a reason. Yes, Luga may've been a part of that reason. There's no way for me or you or anyone to know because, right now, I'm stuck in your timeline. What I do know is that, in mine, I left without all of the information. That's why I'd like to take a look at the Heston's blueprints."

"I think it's a waste of time," his counterpart argued. "At this point, we can't afford to be misdirected."

"Isn't that conjecture?"

Frowning, Michelson agreed, "All right. I get your point." Raising an eyebrow at the man, he added, "What if you're wrong?"

"It won't be the first time," Parker said. "Let's just hope it's the last."

END of Chapter 81


	82. Chapter 82

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 81

Five Days, Six Hours, Twenty Minutes

"You're going to do … what?"

As conspicuously as possible, Olga Vukavitch glanced over at Isaac Mentnor. She hid her expression from Chief Stoddard as best she could, but she knew her fellow Backstep colleague would recognize the panic in her eyes.

"The way I see it, chief," Ramsey tried, his voice booming over the speakerphone, "it isn't as if we have much choice. That Apache has set down. From the air, there's no activity at Zulu. We have to plan an assault on the compound, and we've prepared for the worst possible scenario." There was a pause before he added, "Trust me, sir. Agent Murphy will accompany Mr. Hightower to the ground. Mr. Hightower will provide back-up to Agent Murphy only for the purposes of insuring that the area is clear."

Stoddard glanced over at Olga.

She shrugged.

"Mr. Ramsey," the chief began, "are you saying that you actually want me to go to the President for his endorsement of this … plan?"

"Maybe we don't need to tell him, sir," he countered. "He has enough to worry about right now."

"And it would sound like you're suggesting that he add his son-in-law back to that growing list, is that what you're saying?"

"Sir," Ramsey argued, "if I had any other options, believe me, I'd take it. We're in a pickle ourselves, and Mr. Hightower has the best chance of every man here to pull this off. Yes, it's my decision. Yes, he'll be in harm's way. It's only a matter of seconds, but the other soldiers on board the Havoc and I will be providing these two men with more than adequate ground cover."

"A matter of seconds?"

"Sir," he interrupted tersely, "I'm not trying to be the Monday morning quarterback up here, but you'll have to pardon me if I speak out of term. I'm in the middle of nowhere. You people sent me up here. I didn't ask for this, and I'm doing the best I can. I have few resources. I have roughly two dozen highly trained members of General Nash's staff to coordinate a ground diversion and an aerial infiltration. If I had more time, maybe I could come up with something else, something more inclined with what the Washington elite would prefer. If I had more resources, you can be damn sure that I wouldn't be putting any of these boys in harm's way. In case it's slipped your recent memory, Mr. Hightower volunteered to do this, as did Agent Murphy. No one held a gun to their head. I've made them aware of what we're facing. I've also made them aware of the risks. The only reason I'm even telling you about this is Trace insisted that someone in the White House know in the event – in the unlikely event – that anything go wrong. I give you my word that we're going to take every reasonable, logical, realistic precaution to make absolutely certain that nothing does go wrong … but each minute you decide to call a conference for a decision to be made puts that Apache strike force one minute closer to loading that Halfstep Sarcophagus aboard and soaring the hell out of here. As it stands, I'm guessing that it didn't take these goons long to secure that base. I'm guessing that they've probably tortured anyone and everyone there who had any knowledge of this Halfstep Project you guys cooked up. And I'm guessing that – as we speak – they're well on their way to having what they came here for." Ramsey cleared his throat. "So either give me your blessing, chief, or I'm hanging this phone up, continuing with the mission prep, and I'm doing what I damn well please anyway!"

Olga sneaked another glance at Mentnor. The man had gone pale.

Stoddard kept his expression fixed. He didn't flinch. Calmly, he folded his hands behind his back as he stood at the head of the small conference table. Casually, he glanced from scientist to scientist, and then he said, "Nathan, would you like me to quote you word for word when I tell the President what your decision was?"

"No disrespect, sir, but I think you can that at this point I don't give a rat's ass what anyone tells anyone," the director explained. "I'm going in there to do my job, and, as God is my witness, I'm bringing everyone out alive."

The chief nodded slowly. "Then … we'll keep this decision between all of us, Nathan."

"I appreciate that, sir."

"I'll wish you God's speed."

"Thank you, sir."

"When do you go in?"

"Yuri will be delivering ten of Nash's soldiers about one-half mile from Zulu's northern perimeter in about thirty minutes," Ramsey explained. "I'm going to give them ten minutes to get into position. They'll kick off the firefight, and, once their ground leader has assured me that they've engaged the enemy, I, Murphy, Hightower, and the four remaining soldiers will board the Havoc and head for the base's airstrip. We're not that far away, but I want to make damn sure that the enemy is actively engaged before we even attempt this. I figure that diversion gives us the best chance at keeping our part of the mission under control."

Stoddard bobbed his head. "Is there any possibility that Nash's troops at Zulu will join with their attackers?"

"We've considered that possibility," Ramsey agreed. "The boys we have with us say it won't happen. I'm inclined to take their word."

"Very well," the chief stated. "I want you to contact me the minute you have your report. No delays. As you've demonstrated, time is not exactly on our side."

"Understood, sir."

Leaning closer to the phone, Olga said, "Nathan?"

"Yes, doctor?"

"Please be careful."

"Keep a light on for us, doctor."

The line went dead.

The three of them exchanged concerned glances before Olga asked, "What exactly does that mean? Keep a light on?"

END of Chapter 81


	83. Chapter 83

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 83

Five Days, Six Hours, Nine Minutes

Shoving a stack of classified documents out of his way, Frank Parker set the blueprints on the long conference table. He took one end and unrolled the parcel, Michelson quickly setting a small pile of manila folders on the corners to keep it from retracting. Together, they spread the massive sheet out, letting complete bundled of gathered intelligence fall to the floor. Shrugging, Talmadge rose, walked around the table, and began collecting the sheets of paper haphazardly thrown across the marble floor. The President stepped between the two chrononauts and glanced down at the crisscrossing blue lines and asked, "What is it you believe we are looking for, Frank?"

Parker crouched down on his knees to get closer to the document. He wrapped his fingers around the table's edge. "To tell you the truth … I'm not entirely certain myself." Tracing the long blue ink shaft, he announced, "This is clearly the elevator shaft, and if we follow it up to the rooftop, there's a mass of pulleys to operate the cars. This is one old building, as we all know, and it doesn't appear as if the technology has been updated much."

"I don't imagine the design of elevators has changed much of the last forty years, Frank," Michelson explained.

"Yes, but that isn't my point." Tapping the structure, he explained, "The only definitive piece of information the engineers were able to agree upon – in my timeline, that is – was that it appeared as if the explosion began from the elevator shaft."

"What are we talking about?" Talmadge tried. "Someone left a briefcase bomb in the elevator?"

"Well, that would suggest terrorism," Parker said. "Let's rule that out for now."

"How do you rule it out when it appears to be the only evidence we have?"

Glancing up at him, the chrononaut snapped, "Cut me some slack, rookie. I'm doing the best I can!"

Slowly, Michelson dropped down onto one knee next to Parker. "All right. If we rule out the obvious, then all we're left with is that an explosion began there." With his finger, he pointed to a mess of conduits. "It would appear that there are electrical and gas junctions running all around this primary elevator shaft. Considering that's where the blast began, what's the likelihood that some kind of electrical charge ignited a natural gas main? Is that even possible?"

"It's possible," the President agreed, "but it's not very likely. As Frank pointed out and we can all agree, Heston Tower is an old building. I don't know much about construction from that era, but I do know that structures like this were built to last. Back in my days in the Senate, I can remember attending some of these ribbon-cutting ceremonies. You know the type? The local planners were demolishing an old bank building in order to make way for a new shopping mall."

"So much for progress," Parker quipped.

"You'll get no argument from me," Campbell said. "Anyway, at these events, it wasn't uncommon for me to share a photo-op with the engineers assigned to the project. I don't recall very much, but I do remember many a'times hearing story after story about how difficult it was to take the old building down. It may've been only a few levels high, but those places were designed to last. I would imagine that, as technology advanced, engineers were able to do more with less."

"That makes us rule out structural flaws?" Talmadge asked. "Is it really that simple?"

"Well, none of us are experts here, Bradley," Parker offered, tilting his head to get a closer look at the rooftop schematic. "Maybe once we have a theory, we'd better have the experts look it over."

"How about bringing in an expert now?" the director asked. "Wouldn't it make more sense to have the expert's opinion of what may have happened?"

"I'm with you, boss," he said, "but I know what we're gonna here. 'I wasn't there. I can't tell you what brought a building down in a timeframe that doesn't exist.' That we don't need."

Michelson wiped his hand over the lower level as he followed the basement with his eyes. "Frank has a point there, Bradley. Besides, what are we talking about, really? We know there was an explosion. We know it appeared to begin somewhere near the main elevator shaft. That's all we know."

"We know a bit more," the President joined in, finally dipping to his knees to join the two. "We know that, in order to have an explosion, you must have two principle ingredients. You must have combustible materials, and you must have a detonation."

Raising an eyebrow, Parker asked, "Army man?"

"Aren't the best of us?"

"That's a debate for another time and place."

"Granted," he continued, "there are any number of materials that could serve as combustibles, many of which are available to the average consumer."

"Again," Parker interjected, "that would be if this was an intentional act of terrorism. Let's stay on track here, people."

"Frank, my point is that there really would be a limited number of ignition sources," Campbell countered. "A building like this – one this size – is loaded with opportunities to burn. Inorder to start the reaction, there are a relatively small number of options."

"Which still implies that this was intentional," Talmadge offered.

"Like a broken record," Parker snapped.

"Just pointing out the obvious."

Again, Parker craned his neck, visually following the lines of both elevator shafts from the rooftop down to the basement.

"This tower has an awfully large subterranean structure," he commented.

"It does," the President agreed. "I don't believe that was part of its original design, though. You're looking at the latest version of the blueprints, Frank. The Heston underwent some renovation in the late 1950's to serve as one of Washington's first public bomb shelters."

"But this seems unusually large."

"It was intended to accommodate the citizens in the office district," Campbell continued. "Granted, that was a number of years ago. The building management has probably made use of that sub-structure in a variety of other ways. In keeping up with other hotel services, they've probably put in extra kitchen areas, cleaning, storage … any number of options. Real estate is always available at a premium. I'm quite sure they would've taken advantage of it."

"Mr. President," Talmadge began slowly, "isn't there … isn't there an old piece of legislation that deals with leaving the bomb shelter available … something to house people in the event of an emergency?"

Slowly, he nodded. "I believe there is. Most cities have something similar on record. Washington would be no different." Gesturing at the blueprint, he asked, "Should I have a team of Secret Service agents go over there?"

"It wouldn't hurt," Parker answered. "I wouldn't send a team, though. Send one. Have him speak with the Heston's head of security, assuming they have one."

"They probably do."

"Have him take a look at whatever space remains underground," the chrononaut advised. "If it was a working bomb shelter, maybe it had some kind of heating system independent of the building. If that's that case, maybe we are looking at a ruptured gas-line or gas fire of some sort causing the explosion."

"What will any of this prove, Frank?" Michelson asked. If we determine that the tower was destroyed not in an act of terrorism, then haven't we just ruled Luga's death an accident?"

Turning, Parker met the other man's stare. "It may, or it may not. Like I said, Channing, I don't know. All I can tell you is that this building's destruction was what caused me to take the Backstep in the first place. If there's a connection between my timeline and yours, it may very well be the Heston."

Smirking, he added, "How ironic would that be?"

END of Chapter 83


	84. Chapter 84

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 84

Five Days, Five Hours, Fifty Minutes

Shaking his head, Ramsey refused to believe it: here he was … back in the air again. Gripping the strap from the ceiling overhead, he watched through the port window as the vast white plains soared by not far below the Havoc. To his right stood two of Nash's soldiers with Nolan Murphy, and two his left were Trace Hightower and the other two men. Yuri had radioed – only a few minutes ago – that the advance ground force were taking limited gunfire. As predicted, snipers were positioned along Zulu's northern edge. From his Mi8 Hip, the Russian guessed that not one but two gunmen were on point. With the distance that would need to be covered between the opposing sides, he confirmed that two were more than adequate to keep the soldiers away. If the first gunman went down, the second would clearly step up his efforts. In any event, Zulu appeared impenetrable by land. All that was left was the Havoc and her mission.

Squeezing past the other men, the director made his way to the archway separating the rest of the craft from the cockpit. Svetlana Ivanov stared straight ahead, piloting her helicopter closer and closer to the drifting snow.

"You may want to give us a little more breathing room," he advised.

"I don't want to show on their radar," she argued.

"I don't want you to plow this bird into a snow bank."

She smiled back at him. "Mr. Ramsey, back home I am called 'The Hummingbird.' Have you ever watched a hummingbird fly, no?"

"I have."

"Then you should relax, American," she teased.

Yuri was right. She was one helluva pilot. She was also confident. Ramsey only hoped that she wasn't too confident.

"All right," he conceded. "But you might want to come in with your nose down, Hummingbird. It'll give you a better look of the compound. Watch out for any gunmen who may've taken a position on any of those roofs."

Turning her face forward again, she relied, "You worry about your men. I will worry about my Havoc … if it becomes necessary."

They soared over the airfield's safety fence, and Svetlana did as he had suggested. She dropped the nose of her Mi-28 down and swooped in over a few parked aircraft, barely scraping past the communications tower.

Over her shoulder, she cried, "Prepare the doors!"

Shuffling back into position, Ramsey reached up and grabbed Murphy by the shoulder. As the doors were thrown open and the gush of air cried, he leaned closer to the Secret Service agent and said, "Nothing fancy, soldier! You get down there! You give us the clear sign! You get Hightower to cover! And keep your head down!"

"Yes, sir!"

The space around them darkened quickly, and the director realized that Svetlana had performed her requisite task with great ease. She slipped the chopper with grace – like dropping a coin into a slot without kissing the metal – and she leveled out the descent. Once she brought the vehicle to a stop, she yelled, "In position!"

"Go!" Ramsey cried. "Go!"

Before he could turn to watch, Hightower was over the edge. The director poked his head out of the doorway, and he saw the President's son-in-law flying toward the ground. Gritting his teeth, he finally exhaled when the found the man slowed to a halt in what clearly must've been inches above the concrete.

"Damn," he mumbled, "that boy's good."

Murphy touched down one second later. Throwing the rope loose, he quickly pulled the assault rifle one of Nash's men had supplied, and he started for the corner of the nearest hangar. He was there in a flash, craning his head left and right, and then he turned back to the helicopter. He held up his hand, gave them a thumbs up, and …

… then Ramsey saw the tip of a rocket launched at them from an alcove between two buildings opposite them!

"Get us up!" he screamed toward the cockpit. "Get us up!"

Svetlana had already seen the weapon's fire. She pushed down hard on the stick, and the Havoc lurched upward and to the right side. In the bay, all of the men grabbed their respective straps, and then Ramsey realized that they were leaving Murphy and Hightower behind, an outcome he had promise Chief of Staff Stoddard would never come to fruition.

Pointing toward the approaching rooftop, he ordered the soldiers, "Go for the tops, boys!"

Despite the thunder of the rotors, even Ramsey heard the whoosh of the rocket sail underneath the carriage. One soldier leapt from the Havoc, and he pounded down onto the hangar's roof, his legs folding, his body rolling across the surface. A second soldier soared out across the open space as a wave of heat and ash – the rocket had struck the building and exploded – overtook them. Waving his hand in front of his face, Ramsey leaned toward the cockpit and shouted, "Svetlana, please tell me that your guns are loaded!"

"This bird can sing!" she cried.

"Then let that sonuvabitch have a song!"

Dipping the nose again, she gripped the firing arm, and the front cannon erupted with a hot, bitter stream of lightning lead. The director dropped to the floor, hanging his head out the door to glance down at the intended drop point. Murphy was running – with arms pumping – back toward Hightower. Ramsey saw another flash out of the corner of his eye – a second rocket had launched – but the agent dove through the air, smacking into his young colleague, and the two hit the ground hard as the missile trailed smoke over their fallen bodies, whisked beyond the buildings, and found impact with a snow mesa beyond the airstrip. The explosion rocked even the Havoc, as Svetlana dipped even closer toward the ground, her guns spitting and belching into the dark space where she now was certain her enemy stood. Sparkles of ricocheting bullets lit up the hiding space, and she saw the two soldiers – only two of the secret strike team – as they were torn into bloody halves with startling efficiency.

Somebody turned the lights on, Ramsey realized, as the Havoc finally pulled into the open space, beyond the safety of the alleyway between the two hangars, and he glared out into the bright open airfield to find that the black Apache helicopter was hovering there, waiting for them, anticipating the chance to deliver a massive killshot at any furious second.

"SVETLANA, GET US OUT OF HERE! GET US OUT OF HERE!"

He heard the crack of large weapon's fire. A missile had been leased. Reaching out, he took the other two soldiers under his arm instinctively, pulling them to the floor as he felt the Havoc under him lurch with deftness to the left. They might die from a missile, but he sure as hell wasn't going to allow any man to fall overboard.

That's when he caught a glimpse of fire bursting from behind the Apache, showering off her tail. The missile was meant to cripple an aircraft, but it wasn't intended for the Havoc.

"YURI!"

The Mi8 soared into view. Its cannons opened fire – blazing white saucers of metal death – and the Apache swung about quickly, its pilot obviously trying to draw a bead of his attacker.

Like the hummingbird of her namesake, Svetlana continued with her hard left, gracefully circling her Havoc around, dipping her nose, and then stopping on a dime, with the Apache in her primary gunsight.

"LEAVE MY FATHER ALONE!' she screamed.

Ramsey heard the cannons, and he reached up to cover his ears. He rose, and, through the port, he watched as the Apache suddenly ignited from the hail of bullets and then exploded, its hull cracking in half, its rotor buckling, fire pouring through each of its seams. The wreckage hovered in the open air for a half-second, and then broke apart, rocketing in every conceivable direction, and raining down over the nearest hangar and the solid concrete. What was left of the covert weapon crashed to ground, thundering to rest under the crackling flame.

Quickly, Svetlana glanced backward over her shoulder at him. "Is everyone okay?" she asked.

He nodded. The director wiped the sweat from his forehead. He felt his heart pounding in his chest. Taking an overhead strap in hand, he said, "Well, that didn't quite go as planned." Studying her expression, he added, "What the hell do you call that in Russia?"

She smiled. "Improvisation."

END of Chapter 84


	85. Chapter 85

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 85

Five Days, Five Hours, Forty Minutes

"What do you suppose they're talking about?"

Parker lifted his eyes from the blueprints and glanced over to where President Campbell and Director Talmadge were conversing, on the far side of the room, in hushed tones.

"At this point," he told Michelson, "your guess is as good as mine. Maybe they're comparing golf handicaps."

They laughed. Michelson rifled through the latest stack of intelligence briefings he had become interested in, and he asked, "What are the odds, Frank?"

"Odds?"

"On all of this," he explained.

"You lost me, pal."

He threw aside the first few documents – how was drug-running in Cuba related to any of this? "You and me. Your timeline, my timeline. Actually converging."

"They haven't converged," Parker replied. "They're just … parallel. I think that's what Larnord told me. They're similar. I guess they were similar enough for the Mallathorn to make this … to make all of this … happen … or un-happen." He sighed. "I get a headache just thinking about it."

"I've gone beyond headaches," the man countered. "I think I've developed a full-blown tumor."

"Time travel will do that to you, buddy."

"Tell me about it."

"Oh," Parker smiled. "That's right. You know all about that stuff."

"At least, we have that in common."

"We sure do."

"And Olga."

He stopped what he was doing, and Parker glanced over at the other chrononaut. He didn't see the hate, the frustration, the disbelief in his eyes – the expressions he had seen when they first met, when Parker had explained what he was doing here those many hours ago at NeverNeverLand. What was it, that glimmer flickering from the man's eyes? Could it be respect?

"Look, Channing, I've already told you. I'm only here on vacation. I'm not making this place my home. There is one too many Spheres to my liking, no insult intended."

"I don't think she ever got over you."

He shrugged. "Death is never easy."

"That isn't it," Michelson answered, "and you know it. Olga? She's seen more than her fair share of death with the Backstep Program. As you know, there were other chrononauts before you and me. There were plenty of pre-program test subjects, too, who died in the early efforts to construct the Sphere from the alien technology. She's seen the deaths. In the early days, she was one of the only doctors on staff, so I can only imagine that she saw more than her fair share of it. Also, in this timeline, she was involved in the earliest cases of temporal contamination. She still … well, the last time we talked about it, she told me that those events still caused her nightmares."

Parker realized that he hadn't given serious thought to the simple risk he posed every other person – those lacking the required inoculation – in the timeline. He wondered how many innocents had died from another Frank Parker showing up here. He closed his eyes and rubbed them hard with his thumb and fingers. "I didn't know that."

"There's a lot about her that's changed, since your death," Michelson admitted. "She's still much the same woman, though. Losing you … the way it happened … so public a tragedy for so secret a program … I don't think she ever really can to grips with that."

He knew he had to say something. Parker knew that the chrononaut wanted to hear some magic phrase or reasonably compelling statement, but he couldn't figure out what was appropriate.

"Channing," he tried, "I don't know how it was between Olga and me in this timeline. Where I come from, we never really connected. Sure, we had moments. We had some … spark, I guess you could call it. There may've been some heat." He chuckled. "There were certainly some heated discussions."

"I have those, too."

"I'll bet you do … seeing as how serious you are about her … and how serious she is about you," Parker continued. "Olga's the kind of woman that, if I had her heart, I'd tell you it was worth dying for." He smiled. "But I don't have her heart. You do. It's all in your hands. Let's just hope that that whole dying for her thing doesn't come to pass."

They heard the clipping of footsteps and looked up. The President walked over with Talmadge in tow. Their expressions were grim.

"What is it?" Parker asked. "What's going on?"

"Gentlemen," Campbell announced, "we need to have a slight change in plans."

"What does that mean?"

"Chief Stoddard has spoken with the members of the Cabinet, and they're in agreement that … our best alternative at this point may very well to be to have Channing flown back to NeverNeverLand in the event that a Backstep becomes absolutely necessary."

"Now, wait just a damn minute!" Parker snapped, rising to his feet from the floor.

"Take it easy, Frank," Talmadge offered.

"Take it easy?" he asked. "You want me to take it easy, then you should tell these Washington pinheads who work for the President what a crazy suggestion they've made!"

"I hired those pinheads, Frank, because I trust their advice," Campbell tried. "It doesn't mean I agree with it."

"Then be the President!" Parker argued. "Stand up to them! Tell them that a Backstep is out of the question!"

"We're looking at a small scale Armageddon right now," the commander-in-chief explained. "We've had three attacks. One in Alaska. One in the Persian Gulf. One in Italy. What's next, Frank? We don't know. We're really no closer to knowing where Pendley's base of operations is. We have idea of his full capabilities. We have no idea of when he could strike next. The way the Cabinet sees it is sending Channing back now – two days after your arrival – gives us plenty of time to stop these events from being set into play."

"How can you possibly know that?" Parker insisted. "I've been to see the Mallathorn! I've told you what he told me! Have you forgotten? He said that he's reordered the events of your timeline! Instead of C following B and B following A, you have no way to know what order these events were supposed to occur!" Appealing to the director, he said, "Bradley, tell them what a bad idea this is!"

"Frank, what do you want me to say?"

"Say something!"

Calmly, Talmadge placed his hands in his pockets. "I tend to agree with the Cabinet on this one, Frank."

Parker threw his hands up in the air.

"Now hear me out," the man continued. "I'm not saying that I agree on whether a Backstep should be attempted so quickly. Like you, I think it prudent that we spend more time following up on these possible scenarios you've talked about. Let's learn what we can about the Heston. Let's continue to review the intelligence reports on the senator and Richard DeMarco. Let's do the standard mission preparations that we do on every Backstep." Nodding, he added, "But, if a Backstep becomes necessary – and I do mean 'if' – then we'd be better suited to have one of you back in Nevada now as opposed to waiting up until the last possible second."

"Bradley, we've talked about this!" the chronoaut pressed. "Yes, you've done Backsteps before, but, in the past, these missions have all been entirely independent! They haven't relied on other Backsteps! What they're suggesting is a time trip within a time trip when we already know that the proper flow of events has been corrupted by Larnord! That's … that's just suicide!"

"Frank," the President interjected. "I'm sorry. I've made my decision. Channing is to leave immediately. We have an aircraft standing by."

Turning to the man, Parker said, "Refuse."

"What?"

"Refuse, Channing," he repeated. "Tell them that you won't do it."

"Frank, I …"

"Channing, you're the only other person on this Earth who can possibly understand what the risk is they're suggesting."

"They're not calling for a Backstep, Frank," Michelson offered politely. "They only want to be prepared."

"For what?" he yelled. "If I can't stop this? How can I stop something that has no beginning?"

"It'll be all right," the young man insisted.

"Tell them that you won't do it!"

"Frank!"

Reaching up, Michelson slapped his counterpart across the cheek. Parker held his skin, and he felt the warmth surging up his neck and across his ear. He clenched his teeth together hard. He wanted to strike out, to lash out, to hit the man as hard as he could, to incapacitate him, to make another temporal mission impossible for the time being … but he couldn't.

"Look," Michelson tried, speaking softly, "you know that I agree with you. You know that I'm on your side, Frank. Maybe you needed me to say that. Well, let me tell you that it's the truth. You're right, Frank. But I have my orders, and I have to follow them. I don't want to do this. I don't want to risk the fabric of this timeline by risking another trip. You're right about that. I don't think it's a safe option … but I have to go. I have to get back there and prepare. It's my job. If the roles were reversed, then you'd be doing exactly what I'm doing." Leaning forward, he placed his hand on Parker's shoulder. "Do whatever you need to do, Frank, to keep this from happening. Stop it. Stop Pendley. Stop DeMarco. Stop these acts of terror. Stop all of it so that I won't have to take this trip."

With a whjsper, he added, "Don't do it for me. Do it for Olga."

END of Chapter 85


	86. Chapter 86

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 86

Five Days, Five Hours, Thirty-Three Minutes

"Ladies and gentlemen," the aide began, "at this time, the White House Chief of Staff Ethan Stoddard will be making a brief statement, after which he will not be answering any questions."

Stoddard stepped up to the podium, his notes already prepared and waiting his arrival. Dr. Vukavitch stood adjacent to the stage. She found herself flanked by several agents of the Secret Service. Before her, she scanned the room. It was filled to capacity with reporters and other agents of the White House Press Corps, and everyone stared at the chief with rapt attention. She knew that – in a perfect world – the President should be speaking to the group, but these circumstances were far from perfect.

"Thank you for being here," Stoddard began, quickly reaching down and positioning his notes. "I would be derelict in my duties if I didn't begin by stating that the President is currently preparing a full statement that will be delivered to the nation. You'll be receiving the particulars once they are made available to me. I do not know how soon this statement will be made, though I suspect it will be in the near future, perhaps within the next four to six hours. At present, he is busy with members of his closest advisory staff reviewing intelligence as well as the same video footage the world is presently seeing on the national, international, and cable news outlets regarding the events which took place not long ago in the Persian Gulf and in Vatican City.

"First, let me say that all of our hopes, our wishes, and our prayers are with not only our fallen comrades around the world but also those presently engaged in rescue efforts along the Persian Gulf and in Italy as I speak," he said. "In light of these tragedies, mankind has always shown a singular gift for stepping forward and providing the necessary aid when tragedy strikes, and the United States will do the same. Under advice of the Joint Chiefs, the President has issued orders for our servicemen and women already stationed in the Gulf to achieve a cease fire in order that their efforts might be more appropriately directed to aiding those in need of rescue or assistance. Our commanders in the field have provided the White House with assurance that they are more than able to assist, and the President has ordered these humanitarian efforts to begin at once. Presently, we have several aircrafts getting underway. These craft will bring with them not only the muscle and might of the American military but the needed supplies to aide in feeding and clothing those who have lost all of their possession in the wake of the devastating tsunami. I have been told by our closest advisors at the Pentagon that we will have men and women within the vicinity within the hour.

"Second," he pressed on, staring out at the fixed faces waiting on his every word, "I have been asked to make you aware that our official position is one of cautious concern. As we are presently reviewing all possible information and following up on leads providing by our own agents in the field, the White House is not ready to call these events acts of terror. While it appear that the coordination of these events happening so close to one another, both in time and proximity, would lead a reasonable person to conclude that agents of terror may indeed have played some role, we are presently conducting the necessary analysis to determine what party or parties may possess a measure of responsibility in causing such catastrophes as we have seen. What's of the gravest importance in these matters is that there is no rush to judgment. Appearance alone does not constitute proof. The detonation of explosives in the Gulf and in Vatican City may very well have links to terrorist organizations. At this time, we have not reviewed all information at our disposal. Even as I speak, more information is being provided to the President, to his advisors, and it is important that we review each detail, follow-up on each lead, before we determine what action, if any, is required of this nation.

"Third, let me assure any nation of the world who may have played a hand – should there exist sufficient evidence to connect any person, any government, or any ideology – in these tragic events that, as always, the United States and the other free countries of the world will not tolerate these acts. History has shown that terrorism has always failed – wherever it has been tried – and, should it appear irrefutable that these two events are linked to terrorist organizations – let me be the first to say that these terrorists will fail as well. There is no room for terror in this new age of mankind. As it has been fought and extinguished in many places around the world, it will not be tolerated here, today, in a world where all men are created equal and possess a similar desire to defend that fundamental truth.

He paused for a moment to stare out across the faces of the gathered reporters. Many of them were young. Recent overhauls in several of the major news organizations were pushing younger and younger journalists to the forefront largely in an attempt to revitalize the mainstream press. It had grown stale, and the youthful perspective was found to be far more marketable. Average folks weren't sitting in their living rooms waiting for the learned analysis of such stewards as Walter Cronkite any longer. They were flipping from channel to channel, looking for the best pictures and the most contemporary analysis. They were surfing the Internet hoping for a bird's eye view of the ever expanding universe. They were tuned to talk radio stations around the globe where every Tom, Dick, and Harry could sound off almost instantly about whatever had happened in the last fifteen minutes.

This, however, was different. Much like 9/11, these reporters and the people of their audiences knew they were experiencing a defining moment in their personal histories. These words will be remembered long after they've been said. These images will stick in the minds of children, and those memories will shape their generation and, quite possibly, the one or two or three generations after that. This was a crossroads – either the United States would respond the way its people wanted, or the next election would end with an entirely new Administration, a new House of Representatives, a new Senate. It was the singular denominator of U.S. politics: either you make us proud, or you can pack your bags.

Stoddard hoped he was saying what they wanted to hear.

"Lastly, I believe it important to issue a call to peace for the people of the world," he tried, curling his fingers visibly around the top of the podium. "Much like in the moments after 9/11, our minds are filled with a demand for answers. What has happened? Who has done this? How was it accomplished? While those questions are important, I would ask the ordinary people everywhere to remember that it is your response – how you deal with these events – that has historically shown why you are far from ordinary, what elevates you to the level of extraordinary. Right now, what matters is your fellow man. Right now, what matters is what you can personally do to aide others in their fight for survival. Right now – more than ever – what matters is that you gather your family, your friends, and your loved ones close, and you take time to seriously talk about what you're seeing on the television, what's being broadcast from the different corners of the world, what's being said and what's being predicted. Talk about this. Talk about these feelings. Talk about these events against the broader backdrop of history. Talk before you act, and you will show our brothers and sisters in other countries of the world the greatness we can achieve when people work together."

He nodded at his audience. "The President will be speaking with you shortly."

The crowd erupted with questions as he walked away from the podium, gently took Olga by the arm, and walked out of the room.

END of Chapter 86


	87. Chapter 87

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 87

Five Days, Five Hours, Twenty-One Minutes

His rifle raised and pointed into the space before him, Ramsey crept slowly down the darkened corridor, Agent Murphy across the hall from him, and two soldiers coming up from the rear. He listened hard in the stillness of the hallway. Most of Zulu's troops they had found bound and gagged in one of the airfield hangars. A handful of soldiers were missing, and, from what he understood, they were called 'Dark Soldiers,' a term he had never heard. Apparently, they had only recently been assigned to the base – a crack squad training by some colonel assigned to FEMA – and they were going to be stationed overseas very soon. Their tour at Zulu Base was never supposed to happen, but, apparently, a paperwork snafu gave them seven weeks of unassigned service. Rather than remain dormant at their original posts outside of Seattle, some Pentagon pencil-pusher had them re-assigned to Zulu.

"We knew they weren't here to stay," one of Nash's men had informed Ramsey, "but we didn't realize they'd be working against us, either."

Thankfully, no one had been seriously injured. When the Apache squad landed, they immediately took control of the airstrip, and one of the men had taken General Nash hostage. She had been in the radar center reviewing new satellite images on Hightower's possible location when she had been captured. She put up a fight, the soldier said, but she had been quickly escorted out of the hangar and into one of the adjacent buildings. Also, no one on Ramsey's infiltration team had been hurt. After helping to dispense with the Apache, Yuri took his Mi8 on a quick flyover of the sniper locations. When the gunmen turned their attention to the skies, the ground forces moved in very easily and shut down the enemy. Everyone had been accounted for, with the exception of General Nash, but Ramsey knew where he'd find her.

Squinting, the director made out the thick steel door up ahead. It stood about ten meters down the hallway, and he ordered everyone to stop.

"That's as far as you go," he cautioned, taking a step in the direction of the door. "I'll have to do this on my own."

"With all due respect, Mr. Ramsey … are you nuts?" Murphy asked.

Smiling over at the young man, the director said, "Son, taking on this whole assignment shows you just how out of my gourde I am. But I can't stop now. You have to. So do the others." Nodding down the corridor, he explained, "What lies down there is quite possible a classified matter beyond your clearance. I don't have time to explain. Just … don't take your eyes off me. You see anything go wrong, then the hell with clearance! You get your butts down there to provide me some back-up." He shook his head. "Unless you hear from me, you stay right where you are."

"But, Ramsey …"

"That's an order."

Grimacing, Murphy replied, "Understood."

With that, the Secret Service agent stepped away from the wall. He knelt on one knee and brought up his assault rifle. He aimed down the hall into the darkness, and he nodded at the director.

Gently, Ramsey crept up to the door. He saw the twinkling keypad, and he reached out, tapping in the clearance code provided by Chief Stoddard. The red light changed to green, and the door hissed, its seals cracking and swinging away from the frame. Slowly, the recessed panel started to slide, and Ramsey quickly brought up his rifle sights as the door whooshed out of the way. He peered carefully into the next room – a deep aluminum chamber – with overhead fluorescents. Easily poking his head through the arch, he glanced to the left and to the right. He didn't see anyone in there, so he stepped onto the deckplates.

Down an access ramp, he saw General Nash. She was bound to a service railing, and he noticed a slight trickle of blood down her left cheek. Hurrying, he trotted down the stairs. Once he realized that they were alone, he lowered the gun and gently reached out, taking her chin in his hand.

"General?" he asked.

He saw the bruise above her left eye. Someone had cracked the butt end of a rifle there. He recognized the familiar shape of the torn skin.

"General Nash?"

Slowly, she opened her eyes. She winced at the pain, but, when she grinned at the sight of Ramsey, the man saw that her teeth were stained with fresh blood. She had clearly taken several hits to the mouth before she divulged the information on how to get in here, on how to breach the secret sealed bay.

"Director," she whispered as she came back to full consciousness. "It's good … it's good to see that you made it back to us."

"Take it easy, ma'am," he offered, setting down the rifle and taking the knot that bound her to the rail in his fingers. He began to tug on the rope, and, finding a loose strand, he started to unravel it. "They put up a bit of a fight. They even commandeered some shoulder-firing missiles, tried to take down the Russian helicopters, but we made it alright. Our only casualty seems to be a twisted ankle." With a weak smile, he added, "It looks like you didn't fare as well."

"No," she agreed, and a hiccup of blood slipped out the corner of her mouth.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Not long after you disappeared," she tried, her hands free. She started to fall, but Ramsey caught her, easing her gently down to the floor. "Their helicopter did a quick pass. It … it came back with its gun active and … and it swooped low enough to drop a few of its men on the tarmac. With most of my troops out trying to find Hightower … we were caught outmanned and outgunned pretty quickly."

"Everything's all right now," he told her.

"Not quite," she said, resting her head in her hands. "Like you, we thought … we thought that they were coming for Hightower … but they … they took it."

"The Sarcophagus?"

Surprised, she glanced up at the younger man. "Why … yes … but how do you …"

"Chief Stoddard briefed me on the Halfstep Program," Ramsey confessed. "Once we realized that Hightower's rescue was a distraction, I contacted the White House. He told me all about it, but you don't have to worry about a thing."

"Why's that?" she asked.

From his pocket, he pulled a handkerchief. Gently, he pressed it to the corner of her mouth, where the blood spatter had grown into a slight trickle.

"We were infiltrating your airstrip when that Apache opted to engage us," explained Ramsey. "That thing had some pretty thick armor, but Yuri and Svetlana managed to knock it out of the sky before it could really prove any tactical advantage. Take my word for it: it they loaded the Sarcophagus on board that chopper, it went down in flames as easily as the rest of the ship did. You don't have to worry about a thing."

He stared into her eyes. He saw her fatigue, and he turned to cry out for a medic, but then he felt her grip on his forearm.

"Director," she tried, her voice breaking, "they did take the Sarcophagus … but they loaded it onto one of my cargo planes before they left me down here."

"What did you say?"

"That plane," she explained, closing her eyes, "left here long before you and your team had a chance to do us any good."

He stared at her.

"I'm sorry," she finally replied.

Grimacing, he reached out and slipped her arm over her shoulder, carefully lifting her to her feet. She needed medical attention, and he'd see that she get it.

"Not half as sorry as Washington's going to be when they hear about this, general."

END of Chapter 87


	88. Chapter 88

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 88

Five Days, Four Hours, Forty-Seven Minutes

Pointing to the remaining half of the ham, swiss cheese, and tomato on rye, Parker asked, "Are you going to eat that?"

Waving him off, Talmadge replied, "It's all yours."

"Thanks."

The chrononaut lifted the half-sandwich from the china plate and bit into it.

"Besides," the director mumbled, "I don't know how you can think of food at a time like this."

Using his tongue, Parker shoved his mouthful of sandwich to one side. "You're right," he said. "I should be thinking about sleeping."

Lowering the latest dossier, Talmadge said. "When's the last time you slept, Frank?"

"What timeline are we in now?"

"That isn't funny."

"Then," the young man replied flatly, "it certainly wouldn't be of any consequence now. If I shouldn't have the stomach to eat, then I certainly shouldn't have one to eat."

"Forgive me, Frank. I guess … I guess it's me who's tired."

"Who can blame you?"

Sitting back in his chair, Parker swallowed the bite. He thought about the Sphere, he thought about the Mallathorn, he thought about Channing Michelson who was – no doubt – on board some secret military aircraft right now, en route to NeverNeverLand, and he wondered when any of this craziness would ever end.

"Mr. President?"

"Yes, Frank?"

"Have we heard from the illustrious senator?"

"Not since his last attack," Campbell asked, his face buried in another of the numerous intelligence transcripts. "I think we can all assume that that's a good sign."

"True," Parker agreed. "He isn't calling to gloat." With his eyes closed, the chrononaut tried to imagine himself at the controls of his own Sphere. Within those confines, he had found peace with himself. Despite his anatomy being jumbled around by the temporal circuits, he had found it oddly peaceful to know that – once he piloted the Sphere to wherever the mission was to deliver him – his destiny, his Fate was in his own hands.

"We certainly don't need Pendley's arrogance at a time like this," the President said.

"You're not kidding," Parker snapped. "I mean … what besides taking hold of the entire world by the short hairs and hanging on for dear life, what does the senator have to proud about anyway?"

"It's a wonder to me."

In his mind's eye, Parker saw the target points on the sphere's command console. In flight, he had to line up the counter with these temporal constants – they had to stay in nearly perfect alignment – in order to cruise from one end of the time line to the other.

"You'd think the guy had better things to do," Parker quipped.

Loudly closing the folder he had been studying, Talmadge slapped the dossier to the table. "Frank, that's enough!"

Opening his eyes, the chrononaut stared over at the director. "What?" he asked. "What did I say?"

"You know as well as I do that it isn't so much what you said as how you said it," he bellowed. "You've done this before. You've been in this situation before. How does it feel to have the future on an entire world in your hands, Frank? How in the hell can you be so flippant?"

"Flippant?" Parker quizzed the man. "How am I being flippant by saying that a United States senator should have better things to do, Bradley? Am I wrong?"

"Of course, you're not wrong!"

"Gentlemen!" Campbell shouted over the two of them. "Take it easy! Just … please … take it easy!" He leaned forward, softening his tone. "Look, we're all tired. Director, I understand why you took issue with Frank's statement. Frank, if you think about it, I'm sure you can understand it as well. The last thing we need right now, however, is to find ourselves flying off the handle taking one another to task when our energies would be far more usefully expended trying to get to the bottom of what we're up against." Quickly, he glanced at his watch. "Ethan will have made his statement to the press, and I'm going to need to have some answers before I go before the public … so I implore you: help me."

Sitting forward in his chair, Parker shoved the stack of paperwork away from him. "I'm sorry, Mr. President, but I … I need a braek."

"We don't have time for a break, Frank!" the director exclaimed.

Rising, the chrononaut argued, "That's all we do have, Bradley! All we have is time! Time from now until whenever the senator decides to take out his next target … whether it be a military, a political, or even a civilian target! This is all about time, and that's why I asked what the senator has been spending his time on before he decided that this was a far better use!" Angrily, he stood, the feet of his chair squeaking their protest against the marble floor. "I mean … we're talking about a senator here! A United States senator! Doesn't this guy have any love for his country?"

"Of course, he does, Frank," the President tried gently. "You have to understand the politics of our world, though. In this day, translating one's love for his country doesn't necessary equate with getting the Congress to allot more tax dollars to his state in order to keep his constituents employed. Global terrorism changed much of the way Washington does business."

"I don't know that it changed it so much, Mr. President," Talmadge interjected. "From my perspective, all it did was multiply Washington politics by a factor of ten … or, somedays, twenty. Keeping in touch with the rest of the world became as important as keeping up with the folks back home, and that stress unfortunately produces men and women like Pendley."

"All that's well and good," Parker debated, "but what I'm not seeing here is a record of what Pendley did."

"Nonsense," Campbell countered. Glancing toward the stack of files closest to him, he tried, "I believe I have a listing of all the appropriations bills he worked on."

"No, no, no!" The chrononaut placed his hands against his face and scrunched his cheeks together. "I don't want to read another document. Okay? Just … don't put another document in front of me or I swear my head with explode!"

"All right."

"Tell me." Parker turned slightly to face the commander-in-chief. "Talk to me, Mr. President. You tell me about Senator Pendley."

Raising an eyebrow, Campbell crossed his arms. "Well, I'm not entirely certain of where to being, Frank, but let me say that the senator is serving, I believe, his fifth term in office."

"Has he always been in the Senate?"

"Yes, he has." After a second, he added, "I'm not entirely up to speed on the senator's political record within his state. I'm certain we have it here somewhere."

"That could be," Parker said, "but I seriously doubt he was thinking about turning this Doomsday Time Gun against the world way back then."

"That makes sense."

Once more, the young man turned and started to walk about the conference room. "I'm going crazy in here. I'm about to climb the walls."

"Take your time, Frank," Campbell offered. "Like you've said, that's all we have."

"So Pendley has always been in the Senate," he muttered. Reaching a wall, Parker reached out and pounded his closed fist against it. "Has he been behind any big legislation? I mean … really big legislation? I don't want to know about how he authored some piece to give pigs a national appreciation week. I'm talking about major defense stuff."

"Why, yes," Campbell answered. "The senator has been on the Senate Intelligence Committee for the … well, come to think of it, I believe he's been on it since his freshman term." The President grabbed a file folder, opened it, and scanned the documents for a timeline. "Yes, here it is. He's been a member of the committee since late in his first term of office. He was added to the committee's enrollment after another senator – Grayson – retired from office."

"Does the committee write legislation?" Talmadge queried.

"Of course," Campbell explained, "as their charter dictates. That isn't to say that everything they do gets passed into law, but the Intelligence Committee reviews much of what goes through the Congress in relation to defense and offense weaponry and the like."

"So it's likely that Pendley became aware of this Project Halfstep through a committee briefing?" Parker tried.

"Of course." The President closed the file and placed it back on top of the stack. "He would've been aware, even, of its development from the early proposals through any possible testing and implementation phases."

Parker clapped his hands together. Turning away from the wall, he walked in the direction of the massive steel doors that separated them from the War Room. "Then, we know how the man came to be aware of Halfstep technology, and I'm willing to guess that that means he was more than aware of Backstep."

"The committee has access to limited information from NSA operations," the President explained. "Yes, Pendley would've known of Backstep. On occasion, the NSA will consult with the committee in emergency session to determine whether or not a mission is necessary or desired."

"So he knows of any possible application the government has made of time travel," Parker mused aloud. "He decides – sometime – to launch this whole grand affair of his. The steal control of the technology to serve his own goals. That isn't all he would've needed, am I right?"

"What do you mean?" Talmadge asked.

"Well, unless I'm missing some very big pieces to the puzzle here, this guy has his fingers in FEMA … am I right, Mr. President?"

Slowly, Campbell nodded. "You're right, Frank. Senator Pendley would be well aware of the current FEMA structure, timetable implementations, etc. However, the individuals within FEMA have always been kept secured at the highest levels … with the exception of the preparedness memos."

"What is that?"

"In the wake of 9/11," he began, "this Administration began talking about possible terrorist scenarios that would warrant FEMA's implementation. The Senate Intelligence Committee reviewed all of those scenarios. So … while the senator would not have had access to the enlisted men and women who comprise FEMA's individual response teams … Pendley would have met with several ranking officers of the FEMA Program."

"Right," Parker said. "He may not have known the individual soldiers, but Pendley would've known others who did know those names, wouldn't he?"

"That's right."

Talmadge relaxed a bit in his chair. "All he needed to do was drawn one or two of these officers into his confidence, and then the senator would have troops available for his own use once he launched this scheme."

"Control of FEMA was one of Pendley's original demands," Campbell admitted. "You're right, director. I think that Pendley has drawn someone into his confidence, and that person is using his or her influence to assist in bringing these plans to fruition."

"It would explain the secret helicopter," Parker offered. "It would also explain how Pendley's been able to operate in near secrecy for as long as he has. He's limited exposure to only a select few individuals. Those individuals are controlling the other players for him. All he has to do is set things into motion." Reaching the heavy steel plates, the chrononaut reached out and punched them with his fist. The mechanical thud echoed throughout their chamber. "Think about it. These soldiers could believe they're responding to some threat against the United States when, in fact, they're being directed by a representative of the United States. By the time they figure out they're being used as pawns in some larger game, Pendley is probably having them eliminated."

"If that even becomes necessary," Campbell continued. "These soldiers are prepared for any possible scenario. Who knows? They could be operating under the belief that the White House has been taken over by a military coup. If that's the case, I could issue whatever orders I thought were necessary to get them to cooperate with the military's jurisdictional commanders, and it would do no good."

"Okay, okay," Parker said. He held up his hands to stop the conversation. "This makes sense. It's also scary as hell, but it makes sense." Turning, he asked, "So, with his position in the Senate, Pendley puts the players together in order for his plan to come together. Because of his position within the government, he probably even knew more information than necessary about your son-in-law's trip to Alaska, and he decided to take advantage of that adventure in order to swing this entire affair against you, Mr. President. That was his first strike. What about the Basilisk? It was a top-secret defense submarine on its test run in dangerous waters. Would the senator have had that information at his disposal as well?"

Talmadge saw a light flicker in the President's eyes.

"You'll pardon the expression, gentlemen," Campbell muttered, "but … sonuvabitch! Not only would Pendley have had access to the information, but he chose the name for the submarine himself! The Basilisk! That was his idea!"

Striding back toward the table, Parker reached the stack of files. He pushed through the lot, looking for the one he had studied earlier. When he found it, he threw it open on the table, glancing down at a construction photograph of the submarine. "The Basilisk," he announced. "It wasn't exactly his brainchild, but you could call him its Godfather."

"That's right."

"He gave it its name?"

"He did," the President replied. "He suggested the name, and it was approved by the Navy."

"What does that mean?" Parker asked. "Basilisk?"

"It's from mythology," Campbell said. "I'm not as handy with my Greek as I once was, but I believe the word literally translate to 'little king.'"

"You're absolutely right, Mr. President," Talmadge concurred. "I remember it being referred to as the king of the serpents. To the Greeks, it was small, but it could kill almost anything it encountered with just a single glance from its powerful eyes. It exhaled poison, even in its venom. It was the perfect instrument of death, and, certainly, Pendley was drawing on that analogy when he suggested the name for the sub."

"Mythology?" the chrononaut wondered aloud. "Why is this ringing so many bells?"

"The Sacrcophagus," the President offered. "It isn't from mythology, but it certainly holds a special place in ancient history. And we know for certain that Pendley is linked to that."

"Yes," Parker agreed, "but that's not all."

Quickly, he grabbed a file folder and dumped it out on the table. He rifled through the pictures and pages, shuffling the unimportant ones aside … until he found what he was looking for. Holding up the page, he read: "It is strongly believed that Emile Luga operated for a short time out of the country of Greece, using the code name 'Nisien' as given to him to a confidante. 'Nisien' is from Welsh mythology, the twin brother of 'Efnisien.'"

He set the piece of paper of the table. "What's Richard DeMarco's code name in the Mid-East?"

The President's mouth was open in awe.

"Efnisien," Talmadge answered.

"Right," Parker said. "The twin brother of Nisien." He rubbed a hand across his tired face. "Boys, it looks like we've got us a couple of terrorist brothers." Clearing his throat, he asked, "How much are you willing to bet me that Senator Pendley – with his fixation on mythology – did more than name these two bad boys of international terror? How much are you willing to bet … he's their father?"

END of Chapter 88


	89. Chapter 89

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 89

Five Days, Four Hours, Twenty-Six Minutes

Stoddard glanced into the camera that projected his image through the secure line thousands of miles up to the Alaskan military installation. "What you're telling me is that we should order our forces to begin watching the skies for a C-130?"

"Yes, sir," Ramsey explained. "That's what's missing from General Nash's inventory. A C-130. She's provided the registry number, and I believe she's even forwarded its individual beacon frequency, so you should be able to have the boys pull it up on satellite. However, I'm going to guess that Pendley's goons know what they're doing. They're probably flying this thing over very public locations. Major cities. That short of route. It's going to make it very difficult to engage the thing or shoot it down."

The chief shook his head. "I'm not certain we could get the President to agree to that plan of action anyway. More likely … more likely we'll wait it out. Pick it up on radar. We'll follow it to its destination, and we'll keep the Sarcophagus from falling into the senator's hands."

"If I were calling the shots," Ramsey offered, "I wouldn't play it that way."

"Why not?"

"There's far too much wiggle room, if you ask me," he said. "You're talking about time travel technology falling into the hands of someone we know firsthand is willing to use it for the worst possible reasons. I'd shoot it down, right out of the sky, in so public a display that Pendley doesn't have a chance to miss seeing it happen. He'll know that we're as serious as he is, sir, and he might think twice before he uses that time weapon of his."

Dr. Isaac Mentnor leaned forward. "Nathan, do you really think destroying the Sarcophagus will cause Pendley to rethink his strategy? I would guess that would only further antagonize the senator."

"Look at it from a different perspective, Isaac. Right now, we haven't really responded to any of these attacks. Pendley is seeing us as cowards. He's put up. We've shut up. I say … let's put that sucker back on his heels. Let's show him that we're willing to go to the mat, if that's what it takes, to bring this thing to a head. Who knows? At the very least, it may flush him out into the open."

Suddenly interested, Stoddard turned his head slightly. "How so?"

"Well, we don't know where he's hiding, right?" Ramsey asked. "He's most likely still in Washington. We don't know whether or not his weapon is there, but we know he's been able to finagle some FEMA soldiers to do his bidding, so they could be operating the weapon. If we can get our hands on the senator, we might be able to take control of the weapon. Shut it down for good. I know. It's a long shot. But what else do we have?"

"If the weapon isn't here, how do we know that these soldiers wouldn't turn it on us?"

"Because they wouldn't know where we're taken their boss, the senator," the director answered. "Like I said, I know it's a long shot. Assuming Pendley doesn't have the weapon, then he's probably left these men and women with very specific instructions over what to do if he's taken into custody again, and those instructions are probably targets to hit – one by one – until the United States government releases him." Ramsey shook his head. "I don't buy it. This is too big a game for Pendley to risk having others in charge of the weapon. He's with it. He'll want to see what it can do firsthand. Sure, he'll be able to see the aftermath once the idiots in the press get there, but watching it first requires knowing exactly where it's going to strike … and the only place he can possibly know that is to be in control of it."

"You believe it's here," Olga interjected, "in Washington?"

"I do," he said. "It's the only logical answer."

"And you're suggesting that we cause the senator to make a mistake in order to reveal that location?" Stoddard tried.

"One way or another, chief, an awful lot of people are going to die," Ramsey argued. "I'd rather we do something than do nothing. Right now, the American people are sitting back, and they're waiting for us to respond. I know that you've issued your statement, sir, and I know that the President is going to issue his. That's good, but it isn't going to change what Pendley's up to. It isn't going to change what we're up against. I say … put some heat on this character and force him to become visible. Even if it's for a matter of minutes. Make him angry. He'll slip up. That's one thing I've learned from my years of running this covert operations. You make the other guy angry, and he'll do something without thinking. It'll be … out of the box, so to speak. It won't have the benefit of having been planned out in advance. That slip might just give us the opportunity to go after the bastard."

"Thank you, Nathan," Stoddard replied. "I'll share your advice with the President."

"Chief Stoddard," Olga began, "what is Nathan supposed to do now?"

"Do you want me to head for home, chief?"

"No," the chief answered quickly. "I want you to stay where you are, Nathan. You've secured Mr. Hightower, and you've played a very important role by bringing your Russian friends into the country. Take a few hours. Show them a little American hospitality. Get them fully refueled, after they've had some R&R compliments of our government, and see them off. There's no need to circle the wagons here. I'd rather keep some forces out in the field, should I need to call on them. You stay there. We have Frank, Bradley, Olga, and Isaac here at the White House. Michelson is in transit back to Nevada …"

"What?" Olga asked, surprised.

Turning, the chief offered, "I'm sorry, doctor. Weren't you informed?"

Her face flushed, she gripped the arms of her chair. "What's he supposed to do back in Nevada? You're not … you're not thinking about a second Backstep, are you?"

The man cleared his throat. "We examined the alternatives, and we've realized that our only option may inevitably be to undo these events."

"I concur," Ramsey shot quickly. "As a matter of fact, that's probably what we should've done from the beginning."

Mentnor grimaced. "Have you considered the possible ramifications to the time stream?"

"I assure all of you," Stoddard announced, rising, "that the President and Director Talmadge and I discussed all possible concerns. Michelson was dispatched as a precautionary step. He's going to be prepped and ready in the event that a Backstep becomes our 'nuclear option,' as they say. He won't be dispatched unless we believe no other course of action is going to achieve our goals."

"But didn't Pendley demand control of the Backstep facility?" Mentnor pressed. "Doesn't that indicate he'll be anticipating that strategy?"

"It does," he agreed, "but there is no way to know with absolute certainty how the senator will respond."

"He'll stop us," Olga argued. "He won't let it happen."

Frowning, the chief nodded at the group. "It's out of my hands, at this point. Michelson is already in the air. He'll be in Nevada soon. He's been ordered to prep for his mission." He paused. He knew that the doctors were objecting because they feared for the safety of their colleague, and he appreciated that. Stoddard wanted to say something to reassure them, but, given the circumstances, what could he say? "Let's do what we can to make sure that Channing stays in our timeline, agreed?" He pointed at the video screen. "I like what Nathan's suggesting. Let's force Pendley to make a mistake. Let's force him to behave out of character. If that can pull him out, if that can force him to show us where he is, then we'll take him out before he can use his temporal weapon again." He nodded. "You'll excuse me. I'm going to speak to share this plan with the President." He left the room.

"Nathan," Mentnor began, "how could you agree with this?"

"What?"

"You know what!"

"What more can we do, Isaac?" the director argued. "We're not at war, but we have the technology to strike back at the senator in a way he can't stop us! Why shouldn't we just Backstep and erase all of these events?"

"How can we erase all of them?" Olga demanded. "Nathan, you've heard what the Mallathorn said to Parker! Larnord told him that the natural flow of these events has been altered. In a conventional situation, yes, a Backstep would be the right choice. But this? This is far from conventional! This borders … this borders on the absurd!"

"Olga, Isaac," Ramsey tried, holding up his hands on the other end of the video phone, "I know you're both concerned about Channing. Look. If it makes you feel any better, then let me say that I am, too. But I'm more concerned about Pendley taking another pot shot with that ray gun of his! That we know, there's no way to stop it, short of shutting it down completely. There's no way to defend against it … now. Seven days ago, there is. We can stop these events from ever occurring."

"It's a mistake, Nathan," Mentnor stated flatly, "and you know it."

"How do we know that?"

"If you haven't thought it through," the scientist replied, "then I can't help you."

"What? Isaac, no! Don't be like that! Olga, please! Talk to him!"

"I will, Nathan," she said. "I'll tell him what a fool I think you are!"

"Olga, wait! Now, come on, people! Tell me what I did wrong!"

Standing, she walked over to the phone. She leaned down and placed her face close to the camera.

"What you did may have endangered every living man, woman, and child, Nathan," she said. "For all his bluster, Pendley isn't a fool. He's going to be prepared against a Backstep. He knows we have the technology, and there is no way he is going to allow it to happen."

"We don't know that!"

"Goodbye, Nathan," she said.

"Now, wait a minute …"

"Goodbye, Nathan."

She switched off the connection, and the screen went black. Exhausted, she sat down at the table again, burying her face in her hands. She wanted to cry. She needed sleep. It had been so many hours since she – since any of them – had enjoyed any real rest or even a decent meal. The White House kitchen had prepared sandwiches of all varieties, and she had eaten, but it wasn't a meal to replenish as much energy as she had expended in worrying alone. She sighed heavily, and then she felt the warm hand on her skin.

"Everything will be all right, Olga," Mentnor tried.

Lowering her hands, she fixed her eyes on his. "I can see in your face, Isaac, that you don't believe that."

He smiled weakly. "In this case … no. I don't believe another trip through time will help us." He raised an eyebrow. "Don't get me wrong. We may be able to undo certain events. That's always been the benefit of the program. But will we be able to avert all of this? No. That would be quite impossible. Pendley will only speed up his timetable, or he'll choose far more treacherous targets the next time, and I – like you – don't want to see that happen."

"But it's too late," she said.

"No," he argued. "I'm sure that Bradley convinced the President of these concerns. He wouldn't endorse another Backstep. He's probably … well, if I know Bradley Talmadge the way I think I know the man, he probably agreed to sending Channing back to NeverNeverLand to give the White House a sense of security. He'd want to let them know he was in agreement for preparing, but there's no way he'd ever agree to this."

Her spirits lifted. She slipped one hand down her forearm and placed it over his. She gripped his warm fingers, and she grinned.

"I've missed having you on the project, Isaac," she admitted freely. "It's been … difficult."

"You're more than capable of handling these affairs," Mentnor pointed out.

"That isn't it," she argued. "It's … you. I've wished having another person who shares more of a … scientific evaluation to these events. Would you … would you rejoin the team? I'm certain Bradley would love to have you back."

He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I don't know, Olga."

"Promise me that you'll think about it."

"There are … there are so many things to consider …"

"Just give me your word that, once this is over, you'll think about it," she pressed. "Let me know that you'll consider it as an option, and tell me that you'll talk to me before you decide."

After a pause, he grinned at her. It was nice to know that he was wanted.

"I promise," he said.

END of Chapter 89


	90. Chapter 90

Parallelogram : Day Two : Chapter 90

Five Days, Four Hours, Ten Minutes

The airlock door hissed, spitting a thin layer of condensed air into the room, and the metal hinge activated, opening the hatch between the conference room and the safety chamber. Stoddard stepped through the opening, and he shook hands with Campbell.

"We have the C-130 on radar now, Mr. President," he announced.

"You've been inoculated against temporal contamination?"

"A few months ago, sir."

Hurriedly, the two of them strode up to the table. Stoddard offered a polite nod to Parker and Talmadge, and then he leaned down to the communications panel. Tapping a button, he activated the viewscreen, and a schematic blinked to life. Pointing toward the small glowing orb slowly moving across the surface, he explained, "We were able to lock onto the craft via its transponder. Apparently, the crew never bothered to disable it."

"Why not?" Campbell asked. "Certainly, Pendley isn't so immersed in everything happening that he would've forgotten to have this one simple piece of radio technology removed or deactivated." He frowned. "It doesn't make any sense."

"Sure, it does," Parker offered, rising from the chair and walking easily to their side. "He knows that the plane will be broadcasting its location to anyone who's watching. He wants you to see it. He wants you to know that he's upping his ante. He pulled the Sarcophagus right out from under your nose, and now he's waving it in front of your face for you to see."

"To what end?"

"Think of it as rubbing salt in the wound, Mr. President," Talmadge explained, now moving to join the group before the viewscreen. "As Frank says, the senator no longer has anything to hide."

"But doesn't he realize that if we can see the C-130 then we can as easily shoot it down?"

"He's counting on you reaching that conclusion," the chrononaut continued. "As a matter of fact, I'd say he's prepared for that contingency."

The President stared up at the slow-moving blip, and he wondered what he was supposed to do about it. There, it was … more secret technology falling into the wrong hands. All he had to do was give the word, and a squadron of armed fighter jets would scramble from the nearest airfield. They'd do a precision job blowing their counterpart out of the sky.

"So … I should do nothing?" Campbell asked, confused. "Doesn't it stand to reason that Pendley may've also assumed I'd reach that conclusion?"

"Right now," Stoddard said, "we would be fooling ourselves to believe we can put ourselves one step ahead of Arthur Pendley with respect to taking any action with that aircraft, sir. Frank and Bradley are right. He knows that you're going to see it. All we're really waiting for is the telephone call where he calls to gloat."

Frustrated, the commander in chief clapped his hands together, and the burst echoed loudly throughout the conference room. "Dammit!" he swore. "He's already taken our temporal weapon and turned it on the world. Now, he's taking even greater technology, leaving us with no idea of why he wants it. And the three of you are saying that I'm supposed to sit here and do nothing about it?"

"Now, wait a minute, Mr. President," the chief tried, stepping up to the man. "I'm not advising you to do nothing. I'm saying that it would be more prudent to wait until we hear from Pendley."

"Let him call," Parker added. "You should just be prepared to shove his arrogance back down his throat."

"How am I supposed to do that?"

"Sir," Stoddard offered, glancing over at the chrononaut, "I agree with Frank. I think it's time that we go on the defensive."

"Then why wouldn't I start by shooting down that plane?"

"Look at it this way. If Pendley does get his hands on the Sarcophagus, we still have the Backstep Sphere. We can go back in time seven days. This weapon only gives him three days. We'll still have a tactical advantage." He cleared his throat, and he sounded uneasy. "But, sir, I've had a conversation with Mr. Ramsey, Dr. Mentnor, and Dr. Vukavitch, and I believe they've suggested a better strategy. We need … I should say … you need to make the senator angry. If you can make him angry … if you can unsettle him just enough to force him to do something rash … then we might be in a far better position to determine where he's operating."

Looking around at their faces, Campbell said incredulously, "You've got to be kidding! The man has a weapon that can eradicate an entire city, Ethan. What are you suggesting I do? Kick him?"

"Sir …"

"He's right, Mr. President," Parker interjected. "You rattle Pendley's cage, and he might let down his guard long enough to make a mistake. Now, if he does that, we have to be prepared to move. We have to be prepared to analyze every step he takes." Shrugging, he added, "I'll agree that it's dangerous … but it might just be stupid enough to make Pendley alter his game plan."

Pointing up at the screen, Campbell asked, "Then why don't I start by shooting down that plane?"

"The plane appears to be heading on a course that's going to take it over several major cities," Talmadge explained. "I would guess that the senator's counting on you either shooting down the plane to risk harm to ordinary citizens or shooting down that plane in order to capitalize on portraying you as a war dog to the mainstream press. In either case, you lose, and he wins."

The comm relay chirped, and Stoddard answered it first. "Yes?"

"Chief Stoddard, we have Senator Pendley on the line for the President," the operator said.

"This is your chance," Parker explained. "You know he's calling about the aircraft, sir. You know he's calling to tell you to leave it alone."

"How can I possibly know that?"

"I spoke too quickly, sir," the chrononaut tried. "Let me say … if he does prove himself to be calling about the plane, then I say we go with Chief Stoddard's suggestion. Give him the plane, but don't make it look like you're giving in to his demands. He's expecting you to do something. He'll be expecting you to argue with him. Don't."

"Don't do what?"

"Don't argue," Parker said. "Hear him out. Voice an objection. Try to get some agreement that, by giving him the plane, he won't use his weapon until we … somehow … force him to use it."

Slowly, the President shook his head. "I don't like it."

"Sir," Stoddard whispered, "I think it's the best we have."

His lips drawn tight, Campbell walked over to the table. He sat down in his chair. Reaching out with his right hand, he tapped the button. "I'm here, Arthur."

"Mr. President," the senator began, "I'll dispense with the pleasantries and say that, by now, you've no doubt been informed about the C-130 that left Zulu Base not long ago."

The man glanced back at Parker. The chrononaut nodded at him.

"I'm looking at it right now, Arthur," he said, turning in his chair to stare up at the viewscreen. The blinking light moved a short distance on the projected map. "What of it?"

"I don't need to tell you, sir, how important it is that the aircraft be allowed to reach me unharmed and uninterrupted."

"No, you don't."

"It would be a shame if I were to learn that you were planning on shooting it down. That is why I took the precaution of plotting its course over several cities filled with a significant portion of registered voters. You wouldn't want any harm to come to them, would you?"

The President bit his lower lip. "Arthur, do I have your word that you'll leave those cities alone?"

"Do you think I'm barbaric?"

"We've already had that conversation, senator."

"Yes," Pendley stated without emotion. "I believe we have."

"Would you mind sharing with me what cargo that plane is carrying?"

"Don't play me for a fool, Mr. President. You know damn well what I've taken. You should be more concerned about what I may do with it."

"You'll do nothing with it, Arthur."

"Is that so?"

"Yes, it is," Campbell replied. "The Sarcophagus doesn't concern you except as an additional bargaining chip. This is your way of warning me that if one way doesn't work, you're willing to accomplish your objective – however nefarious that may be – by following another, more treacherous course of action." He sat back in his high leather chair. "Didn't your years of service on the Intelligence Committee teach you anything, Arthur? Time travel is not any nation's playground."

"To the contrary, Mr. President, I think you've done a fine job of making it your own."

"You know as well as I do that any Backstep we took had the approval of many advisors, Arthur. There is no reason for you to make this personal."

"It has been personal since it began, sir," Pendley argued. "This has always been about a vision for the future. Your desire is to change the past. Mine is to enforce the future."

"Enforce?" Campbell sniffed at the word. "That's a very cold choice of words."

"Be that as it may, I would still ask that you respect my wish to have that aircraft left completely alone."

Parker edged closer to the table. He sat down next to the President and glanced hopefully at the man.

"May I ask for a show of good faith in return for granting your wish, Arthur?"

"I'm listening."

Campbell nodded. "I have a world waiting to hear from me," he said. "You've probably seen Ethan's statement to the press. I don't care whether or not you agree with it, but there are many people waiting to hear from me." Tilting his head to the side, he asked, "Would you be so kind as to hold off using your temporal weapon on any nation of the world until I have the chance to make my address?"

The room was suddenly silent.

"Arthur," he continued, "it would be a small price to pay in exchange for my efforts to help bring a swift resolution to the matter at hand."

"Mr. President," the senator cried, "I've already told you how to bring an end to this whole affair! All you need to do is relinquish control of the government to me!"

"Yes," the man argued, "along with meeting several other ridiculous demands." He placed his hands on the table and leaned closer toward the speaker. "Arthur, let's not speak out of haste. Let's not behave out of turn. I'm willing to allow you your aircraft. I'm asking a small favor from you. Stand down your weapon. Holster that gun. Give me some time to put things back together … or are you so interested in tearing your precious world apart?"

"Fine," Pendley finally agreed. "I give you my word. I will not strike again – under the condition that the aircraft arrives safely in Washington and its cargo can be safely delivered to me – until you've had the chance to address the nation. Don't overestimate your powers of deduction to notice that I've mentioned where I am. It should come as no surprise that I'm in Washington. You've learned nothing. You've gained nothing. I've only confirmed what you've long suspected. Besides, I'm far more interested in making peace than I am in making war. Giving you the time to prepare a speech? That's a small price to pay when you're dealing with the fate of the world."

Grinding his teeth, the President replied, "Thank you."

"You'll hear from me after your address, Mr. President," the senator finished. "A word of advice? Make it a good one … or it may be your last."

END of Chapter 90


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